Steeled Page 7

“Pray to God you’re right, son,” said Berren doubtfully. “Pray.”

  4

  Complications of the Regency

  Sir Merundi was one of the last council members left over from the previous two regents — well, one and a half, Irae re-reckoned — and, as such, had a tremendous amount of seniority over the rest. Especially the new ones that she was endeavoring to appoint, which were largely unknown. Perhaps it was silly to try to set up a council based on what she remembered from when she was a child, but it was either that or sheer gut instinct.

  And Sir Merundi was not helping her out, either way.

  “Not to be petulant,” she said when he had strongly advised against the fourth candidate she had mentioned, “but it does seem as though you just never like my ideas.”

  He smiled at her a bit ruefully. He had a friendly, rumpled, lived-in face, and his smile almost always looked as though it were apologizing for something.

  “It isn’t that, my lady, I assure you. It’s only that you’ve not been living with these nobles, and I have.”

  She hunched her shoulders a little, defensively. “It hasn’t been that long since I was exiled from the castle. I do remember more than you might think.”

  “Nearly all the nobles who served on the Council when you were still a princess have passed on, been demoted, or have outright left the kingdom,” he pointed out. “Whatever the reason, few of them have been able to make it through your uncle’s short and selfish reign. Now, the names you have put forth are still in the area, to be sure, but I have a bit more experience than you as to what they’ve been doing with their lives. Not all nobles are noble, you know.”

  She smiled despite herself.

  “I know. I thank you for your help, Sir Merundi. I know you’re only wanting the best for me, in your own way.”

  He offered a half bow, eyes on the ground.

  “Even as we search for suitable candidates, a larger issue looms. You sent the farmer, Berren, to report to me.”

  “I did. He was involved in an inebriated scuffle, to put it lightly, in the town last night. He claimed that there were words spoken that verged on treason.”

  “More than verged,” said the councilman heavily, and seated himself on the steps near her feet. He draped his arms over his bent knees, and leaned forward, a casual attitude that both took Irae by surprise and made her want to pay more attention to the older man. “And that report was not the only one that I have had. There are factions both in and out of Balfour that are speculating as to the nature of your uncle’s exile, and to the legitimacy of your own coronation.”

  “Legitimacy?” she said, half-starting from her chair. “Complaints about the sudden change in regent I can understand, but how can anyone deny the legitimacy of my queenship?” Her voice rose in distress. “My father was the November King! I am the last of my house. If anyone has the right, it’s certainly me.”

  He lifted both hands to stem the tide.

  “I know, I know,” he said, soothingly. “The trouble lies in what your uncle has done. Regardless of the fact that his claim was illegitimate in itself, he did declare himself king. And as King — as the December King — that may seem to have closed your house, and your calendar. There are those who rally for a new year on the throne, for the ascension of another house.”

  Her brain went white, blank, and wordless, and she could do nothing but stare at him for a moment. He looked up at her from his position on the stairs below, calm and matter of fact, remarkably free of any sentiment or apparent feeling.

  “My — my people believe that my house has ended before me?” she managed at last. She was aware that her voice sounded as small and weak as that of a little girl, far younger than her own eighteen years, but she couldn’t quite manage anything more. There was no force behind her words; there was no strength inside her. “They believe that I have taken something which did not belong to me?”

  He reached a hand out to her as if on impulse but stopped just shy of touching her own hand where it gripped the arm of the throne.

  “Not all of them,” he said, “but a sizeable contingent. And the ranks of them include many of the nobles which you would otherwise have sought to include in your new council.”

  “But I fought so hard to get back,” she whispered. “We did so much — we lost so much! Karyl —”

  “It is a tragedy,” said Sir Merundi, though without any real emotion behind it it did not sound as though he truly thought so. “I didn’t know your friend, myself, but it is hard to lose anyone who has remained loyal and true through everything.”

  “Yes,” she said. Tears were sparking at her eyes, tiny pinpoints of water, and she blinked rapidly and shook her head. “It is terrible. Especially when there are so few who will stand by you.”

  “Well, my lady,” said her councilman with slow deliberation, “I can assure you that you still have your loyal friends. I was always there for your father, and I can promise the same to his daughter. As much as you were taught when you were young, it is still a long, slow road to becoming an effective, wise, and just regent, and I have dedicated my not inconsiderable skills and resources to assist you on your way.” He stood up readily, sprier than she would have expected at his age. “The first order of business ought to attend to the ambassador from Elgodon, Lord Zedrik. I understand there is some confusion as to the peace treaty your uncle had so recently signed with Elgodon’s king.”

  “Yes, of course.” She rubbed both hands over her face and sat up straight. “Please send him in. And accompany him, if you would. Having not been here when the treaty was made, I would like to have some first-hand knowledge at my disposal.”

  He gave her a deep, respectful nod, and left the room. For a moment, Irae sank back into the throne — the throne which belonged to her, now, though others would contest it. She rubbed absently at the rich cloth with which the arm was upholstered, wondering if it were possible to count the threads, to know everything there was to know about being a queen in Ainsea. Her own father had sat here, and his father — King Lev’s brother — and her own great-grandmother, too. So on and back for eleven regents, all of those of her house, her own full calendar.

  And her uncle had taken the place that belonged to her?

  She splayed her fingers over the arm of the chair and tightened them till her knuckles whitened.

  No. She would not allow it. This was her throne, and it belonged to no one else.

  Let them come and try to take it from her again.

  There was plenty of room in the goat shed.

  It was only a few hours later, of course, that disaster struck.

  Night had fallen with a particularly sudden swoop, which Thorn put down to the mountainous region in which they were traveling. It seemed to go from broad daylight to a sky all full of stars in less than ten minutes, and though that could not possibly have been the case, Thorn felt as though there were some strange forces at play. It was as though a giant black bird had swooped down over them, speckled with the tiniest of holes so that daylight could just barely be seen.

  He was not normally given to such flights of fancy, and made the mistake of mentioning it to Berren, who only laughed and shook his head.

  “It’s true what they say, then,” he said. “You Forged are a strange lot.”

  Thorn took issue with this wholesale painting of the Forged with one large brush, and also with the casual belief that there were more Forged out there — if it was so easy to believe it, then why couldn’t Thorn do so himself? — but he hadn’t time to do more than open his mouth before there were whoops heard from the darkness on either side, and then the sst-thunk! of an arrow being shot, and there it was quivering just in front of them, visible only because it had been set on fire. Thorn yelped, Berren swore, and there were answering whoops from in front of them. Berren yanked on the reins of his horse to get him to turn around, and Thorn put his heels to his. Inasmuch as he was thinking at all, he was hoping to move quickly enough to dodge whoever was in
front of them.

  “You’re going the wrong way!” Berren yelled back at him.

  “I’m not, you are!” Thorn yelled in return, though at the back of his mind the thought nagged him that this was a stupid and childish thing to say. But there was nothing to be done except what seemed to be the wisest choice — although it was almost immediately shown to be the wrong one. The whoops and hollers that he had heard were more than bluffs; the bodies to which the noises belonged appeared in front of him almost immediately, with more flaming arrows at the ready. The rogues — he assumed they were rogues, he didn’t seem to be able to go anywhere without encountering rogues — were on foot rather than horses, but arrows knew no limitations. Thorn slowed to a stop.

  Behind him there was a loud yell, the sound of blows landing, and a tremendous crash and thud. So at least, Thorn thought, turning back had also been the wrong thing to do. This was cold comfort, however.

  One of the rogues held a torch, from which the flaming arrows must have been lit. In the light of it, he stepped forward, and held it up to Thorn. The horse shied away a little, but not before Thorn could see the glint in the man’s eyes, behind his mask.

  “An ambassador of her new Majesty,” said the rogue, his voice muffled. He fingered the insignia on the horse’s saddle. “Why, we could hardly hope for anything better.”

  “I find — I find that hard to believe.” Thorn’s voice was caught in his throat. He coughed hopelessly. “I’m nobody important. You should aim higher.”

  “Nobody important, eh? And what are you doing with a horse from the queen’s stables, then?”

  “Maybe I stole it,” said Thorn, in a burst of inspiration that did not have the intended effect, as the rogue only laughed, somewhat insultingly.

  “Maybe you did,” he said, “and maybe I’m the queen’s twin sister. Come down off of that horse.”

  Thorn came down off of the horse.

  He no sooner lit onto the ground than he took off running, hoping that the element of surprise would buy him a little extra time. His hope was a forlorn one; the rogue pelted after him and caught up within fifty paces. In short order, Thorn found that his arms were twisted around behind his back and he was being marched back towards the rest of the group, which waited, presumably with faintly amused expressions — at least, that’s how Thorn pictured them looking, beneath the masks. His inability to escape being caught by highwaymen for the second time in as many months should, at least, have some value as entertainment to someone — it certainly was nothing other than an embarrassment to him.

  With the horse being led behind him, Thorn was conducted off the pathway and into a well-hidden ravine, kept out of sight by a combination of the moonless night and the handy — for them — diagonal split of the mountainside. Thorn stumbled more than once as he was directed down the steep slope, but the highwaymen, led only by the light of the single torch at the front, were sure-footed as cats, even in the rocky rubble that littered the ground. Ahead of him, Thorn could make out the flickering light of a campfire, kept easily out of sight of the pathway above by the turns and twists the ravine took as it meandered downwards.

  There was no doubt about it. The masks, the jeers, the cage that he now saw waiting ahead of him: this was the same band of rogues that had caught him once before, dealing the blow that had led to Karyl’s end, and joining his journey with that of Lisca Felcin.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said, his lips numb.

  “That’s perfectly all right,” said the rogue who had him by the arm, cheerily. “You don’t need to believe a thing in order for it to be true.”

  Thorn looked about himself for a clue as to what might have happened to his erstwhile companion, and found it in the presence of Berren himself, who was limping and pale and looked much the worse for wear. Berren eyed him, and Thorn eyed him back.

  “I told you that you were going the wrong way,” he said.

  “Didn’t put up much of a fight, did you, son?” said Berren.

  “I tried to run,” said Thorn, defensively.

  “Tried to? You tripped over your own feet, did you?”

  “I mean, rather, I did run. I just didn’t get very far before they caught me.”

  “That’s all right,” said Berren, reaching out to ruffle Thorn’s hair. Thorn’s back went rigid; he was unsure whether he should object to the contact in and of itself or whether he should just be outright insulted. “Not everyone has it in them to be a hero, you know. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

  “I beg your pardon —”

  But they were in the middle of the rogue’s camp, now, and had been brought before a figure seated on a fallen log in front of the fire. He was toasting a piece of bread, holding it out gingerly on the toasting fork, and he, like the rest of them, wore a plain black mask. He glanced up at them quickly, then back down at his task, jerking his chin at the rogues that held Thorn and Berren by the arms. They were conducted a little way away from the fire and seated forcibly on the ground.

  “That’s him,” said Thorn. “I knew it.”

  “Him? Him who? Him that caught you before?”

  Thorn nodded wordlessly. His companion leaned in closer to him, brows drawn furiously low over the bridge of his nose.

  “You just had to say it, didn’t you?” he whispered fiercely. “You just had to go and speak them out loud and jinx us!”

  “I didn’t mean it to happen like this!” whispered Thorn back to him. Though it struck him, as the words were leaving his lips, that perhaps this was, indeed, what he had wanted after all. Since Irae had first told him of his task to travel to his home village, his burden of being there when Elseth awoke, he had wanted nothing more than to avoid it, it terrified him so. Perhaps this was how it was going to happen. Perhaps he would get what he had wanted after all.

  Perhaps this was just a lesson that the universe was using to teach him that there were worse things than going home.

  Whatever the lesson, he wholeheartedly wished for nothing more than to be done, at last, with being an unwilling student of life. But not in the sudden, terminal way, he amended quickly, in case the universe was listening.

  Berren lapsed into an irritated silence, apart from an occasional grunt; something seemed to be wrong with his leg, though Thorn couldn’t tell what it was in the sparse light and deep shadows cast by the campfire. They sat together for an interminable time, until in response to some unseen signal, the rogues who were guarding them pulled them to their feet and presented them to the leader once more.

  He had finished his toast. This disappointed Thorn, who wanted to know how he was going to eat with a mask covering most of his face.

  The leader of the rogues waved his toasting fork at them in a generally welcoming sort of way. The figure was familiar, and the voice — it was the voice that really told Thorn that he was in the presence of the leader of the rogues. He had heard that voice a few times before, most notably the night that Karyl received the arrow wound that led to his end, or rather to his Forging. It was a curious, raspy, engaging voice, and it created a picture of a dark and vivid man with strong, handsome features; none of which could be belied, as he always wore a mask.

  “A good autumn evening to you,” he said pleasantly. “I trust you’ve put all thoughts of escaping out of your mind by now?”

  “Something like that,” said Berren, his voice sharp with anger. “As a matter of fact, I’ve half a mind to turn you all into the guards, to teach you a lesson in interfering with the travels of an honest working man. Can’t very well escape until I’ve done that, now, can I?”

  “It is, indeed, good to have goals in life,” the leader assured him. “Be that as it may, yours will have to be postponed.” He thrust the toasting fork into the ground beside him and rested a hand on it casually. “As things lie, my own goals supersede. It has been some time since we took any travelers to hold for ransom. We need to keep our hands in, you understand.”

  “But we’re no good to you for tha
t,” interjected Thorn. “Why would you want us, anyway? We can give you no ransom. We’re nothing. We’re nobody.”

  The rogue turned his pale eyes on Thorn, and chuckled. Despite the apparent pleasantness of the sound, it had a slow, dusty, creeping quality to it that Thorn very much did not like.

  “I remember you very well, as a matter of fact. Nothing and nobody you may be, but you escaped my cage, along with your companions. And you’ve come now from the castle, wherein the new queen has just taken residence. So, you’ll be happy to realize that I view you as potentially very valuable indeed, no matter how much you apparently struggle with a poor self-image.”

  Berren turned a glare in Thorn’s direction; Thorn looked away. Having the keen attention of the rogue leader as well as the sheep farmer’s practiced glare all at once was far too much.

  “I will bring no ransom, no matter what you say,” he muttered.

  “I highly doubt that,” said the rogue. “And I hope, for your sake, that you are wrong.” He nodded again to his henchmen, and Thorn felt hands tighten on his arms. “At any rate, we aren’t far off from the castle. We will find out in the morning.”

  Thorn opened his mouth to object again — though he hadn’t much to say beyond, perhaps, “We certainly will not!” which would have just sounded childish again — but he was already being tugged away from the fire. This time, they were brought to a little area in the midst of the men, most of whom were busily engaged in preparing and eating food. Thorn did a quick estimate as he looked around at the group and guessed that there were around thirty of the rogues. Far too many to overpower all on their own; he hoped desperately that Berren wasn’t about to suggest that they try anyway.

  But when he turned to eye the sheep farmer, he found that Berren didn’t appear likely to suggest trying anything much. He was even paler now and sweating profusely even in the cold night air. There was enough light from a nearby torch that Thorn could see that the left leg of his trousers was dark and damp, and that there was something sticking out of his leg about six inches above the knee.