Chapter 1
Arynn
Ignistad, Marzora; Ænæria
One Moon Ago
She hadn’t gone into the midnight council with many expectations. She noted Juarez of Juptura sharing a familiar eye with the other men around the long marble table in the castle’s meeting hall. There was little pomp for the half-nosed man being named, and if Arynn’s gut could be trusted, the man already had a reputation within Ænæria. The king’s nephew had been met with applause when named legate of the new province, Bacchuso. Gatron’s so-called return from the dead had been received with weary eyes and half-hearted ‘hurrahs.’ Indeed, they clapped their hands together and sung words of praise. That is until the king announced her name.
“Meet Arynn of Vänalleato!” King Randolph cheered.
The clapping died. Severing the legates of their hands couldn’t have yielded a better result. They shied away, sinking farther into their gold-rimmed stone seats arranged around the council table.
Legate Gatron of Plutonua to Arynn’s right raised his hands in a fit. “Look, you know I’ve always respected you, Randolph.”
“King Randolph,” Legate Glendir of Mercura, the King’s second-in-command corrected. “If you had respect, you’d do well to remember his title as the Sun’s Chosen.”
Gatron’s face contorted into a grimace. “Of course. King Randolph.”
The king’s elbows leaned against the smooth marble table like a lion prepared to pounce.
Gatron swallowed, his gulp audible in the eerily silent room. “How can she be Fenwin’s replacement? She’s the enemy! She helped that treasonous Rhion and the Limmetrad boy ship me off to Vänalleato!”
“Last I heard, Gatron,” Longinus interjected, “she not only defeated you but Fenwin as well. Seems to me she’s more than qualified to take his place.”
Juarez sat to Arynn’s right; he turned, and she saw he not only suffered from half a nose but wore a face riddled with countless scars, burns, and other blemishes. He groaned and crossed his powerful arms across his thick upper body. “I don’t know. Gatron’s got a point. How can we trust this woman?”
“Adding to that, she’s a pagan,” one of the legates across the table said.
“Oh, can it, Ambrose,” a legate with jewelry laced golden hair said. “Aphredites was littered with pagans before King Xander placed you as its legate. Last I heard, you haven’t been doing too fine a job fixing that either.”
“You’re all missing the obvious point,” another legate said. He had thick knotted black hair, blue lips, and a single glimmering eye. “She’s not but a wench. King Xander made it clear when he had us appointed that the fairer sex wasn’t to be among our ranks. The work’s too brutal for them.”
Arynn cleared her throat, and twelve faces flashed around the table, all eyes shining on her. The thirteenth man’s eyes had hardly lifted their gaze since the beginning of the argument. The king was intrigued by how she’d respond. He’d told her it would be one of her first tests as legate.
“The king himself announced me as legate of Hestinia. If that’s not enough for you then perhaps we should take a closer look at your loyalties.”
That seemed to shut them up. Cowards, Arynn thought. They’re all too concerned about the king’s opinion of them. As soon as it’s threatened, they recede right back into their shells.
Their commentary on why she wasn’t fit for legate yielded nothing she hadn’t already heard. She’d been acting legate of Hestinia for two weeks already. Nearly all that time had been spent putting up with Prefect Memnon’s ridicule and Lady Crane’s scrutiny. She may have had to train all day with the former, and live under the same roof as the latter, but at least she still had one person in Hestinia to keep her sane.
“Gentlemen, please,” the king’s calm and uncomfortably soothing voice said. “Why expend such energy on the young legate when we could instead focus it on our enemies to the south?”
Squinted eyes drifted from Arynn and shifted to bright expressions for the king.
“We’re finally invading those southerners? Excellent!” the blue-lipped legate cheered.
“Not quite, Thatch, though I do so enjoy your enthusiasm. We will focus our efforts on the homeland. Our Rhion lack the discipline our departed king had envisioned. The enemy has infiltrated our ranks, spoiling the minds of our children and workers. Lies spread among commoners and military men alike. We need to cull this sickness before it spreads farther.”
“My king, shouldn’t we be planning a strike against the Penteric Alliance?” one of the legates said. “After all, one of them slew our founder! Since then we’ve lost Rivers as well, his chosen successor. Surely you understand that we must show strength in such times!”
“Are you insinuating, Frederick, that I am making weak decisions since I was not chosen by Xander?”
Arynn’s mind still struggled to understand what had happened to Xander’s true successor, Legate Rivers of Juptura. Apparently, the man had been named king during the northern expeditions but died soon after returning to Ænæria. Few people spoke of it. Even hinting at it, as Legate Frederick had, stirred a silent tension gripping the other men.
The legate froze save for his eyes, which zipped back and forth to the other men like two swarming bees. “No, Your Majesty, of course not.”
“Then what are you implying?” Longinus asked, his voice rough and gravely.
“Not that the king is weak, I assure you! I merely think it would be in our kingdom’s best interest to take revenge for King Xander’s death. What they’ve done is horrendous. Unforgivable!”
“You’re absolutely correct,” Randolph answered. “I’ve said nothing of forgiveness. We will first make ourselves stronger. Our first step will involve removing the traitors.”
“How should we go about that?” Philemon of Cerez asked. Arynn had learned his name when she arrived at the castle with King Randolph. Philemon had been the first legate at the meeting, arriving earlier even than the king himself. He spoke with reverence to the king, his voice soft and almost timid.
“Could always torture a few. Crucify ‘em for the commoners to see,” Thatch offered. “That’ll make ‘em think twice before committing treason.”
Arynn chuckled. Thatch and a few other legates glared at her with fire in their eyes.
“You’ve got something better in mind, girl?” Thatch asked.
“As a matter of fact, I believe she does,” the king answered for Arynn.
A slight grin stretched along Arynn’s face. Careful. I can’t have them thinking I’m too confident. “It is acts like torture and slavery that has our people rebelling in the first place. The harder you push them down, the stronger they become. They’re molded into people with a common cause and shared oppression.”
“How do you suggest we deal with them, then?” Phoebus from Apollin asked.
“Take away their ability to fight. Create the illusion that far more people are satisfied with their lives than are willing to rise up. Make them understand they’re replaceable. Commoners suspected of rebellion aren’t threatened with bodily harm. Instead, remove them from their homes and jobs. There are thousands of slaves in Ignistad—far more than the city needs. Though the commoners aren’t aware, there are also hundreds of other slaves throughout the kingdom in the service of nobles and we legates. They’re skilled workers who could easily replace the commoners. Pay them a wage, but lower than the men and women they’ve replaced. It’ll be impossible for them to find jobs that the former slaves haven’t already taken. That is unless they earn their homes and jobs back—with information. They’ll be so desperate, worried about fending for their families that they won’t care about a rebellion which can’t even fund itself when all of its members are fending for scraps of food.”
It was a plan which would require far more effort than she made it seem. That was okay. That’s why it was being brought up now. The legates possessed some of the sharpest minds in Ænæria. And if they couldn’t refine the plans themselves, then they would find access to people who could. The legates had access to all the resources of the old noble houses. Lady Crane, the last living noble in Hestinia, would be more than happy to provide for Arynn and Ænæria’s cause. Her very life depended on it after all.
“What are we to do with the labor the slaves provided before being freed?” another legate asked. His head was shaved on both sides, leaving one long strand of gray and black down the middle which extended like a horse’s tail down his back.
“A fair question, Arion,” King Randolph answered. “The former slaves will be paid a fraction of what was paid to their previous jobholders. Of the sols we save from this, a small percentage can be used to pay any willing workers. These people will be hungry for work. Those loyal enough to Ænæria will accept jobs previously worked by slaves in Ignistad or in the noble houses. The rest will either starve or run south. Either way, we are removing traitors from our midst.”
“And bolster the army down south even more!” Thatch cried.
“All while we sit around waiting for them to attack us,” Frederick added. “Come now, my king, as a fellow Minervian, I should think you’d set precedent to strategy and not folly.”
“We should at least kill them before they make it south,” said Juarez.
Arynn shook her head and couldn’t help smiling. “We will let them go south. They will tell the southerners that we’re unstable and weak.”
“That will invite them to attack us!” Arion said.
“Can’t you see?” Longinus said softly, losing that gruffness to his voice for a fleeting moment. “This is the genius plan the king and Legate Arynn have come up with.”
The air grew heavy with tension, nearly suffocating the outbursts of resentment from the other legates’ mouths. They can say what they want to me—a woman and an outsider. To disrespect the king’s own kin for defending the king’s honor would be a terrible offense indeed.
The king squinted, the sardonic smile fading from his face. It was an expression she hadn’t often seen from the king. Nonetheless, it was one she knew. He was done playing games for the night.
“Go ahead, Nephew. Explain it to your fellow legates. Show them you’ve more than earned your place at the table.”
Longinus fidgeted with the metal prosthetic substituting for his right hand. It was the same from the one he’d had at the battle of Jordysc—a tri-pronged hook with sharp points like the talons of a mighty falcon. Arynn had first noticed it when he shot Ben in the head with a one-handed crossbow. A fair revenge. After all, Ben did take the hand from Longinus.
“The southerners will think us weak and disorganized. They will come to us seeking vengeance for spiriting away King Xander’s daughter and keeping prisoner her two villagers. Remember, we want our people fighting for a common cause. Shamefully, the glory of the Sun is not motivation enough for so many of our people. Perhaps this strategy will remove that ilk from our lands. Regardless, if we goad the enemy into invading, our people will want to fight and defend their homes. It will be a stronger rallying cry than the death of a king most of them had never even seen.”
Arynn exhaled a sigh of relief, lowering her shoulders if only a tad. The king had done a fair job of raising his nephew. He seemed to have a mind at least as sharp as the prongs on his metal hand. Makes him smarter than at least half these other men in the room.
She watched the legates for their reactions. The two by the king’s side had shown largely constrained expressions throughout the council. They, of course, already knew the plan, being Randolph’s second and third in command. Arynn knew, of course, from helping construct it. It had been her way to aid with the end of slavery while also proving her place at this very table. The king had been with when she constructed these plans. He had, after all, been with her rather frequently since he rescued her at the Battle of Jordysc.
Some of the men nodded their approval, praising Longinus for his astuteness. Arynn found herself instinctively reaching for her braid to twist, frustrated that the credit went to him rather than the one they knew had actually been the architect of this strategy. The braid was not there. It had been cut two weeks ago when she accepted her position as legate. This was the shortest it had ever been, resting free just above her shoulders.
Other legates were less enthusiastic. Gatron spoke up first. “They can be lured into Ænæria, you can spread as much propaganda as you please, but don’t forget that it will be we provinces on the border who will suffer the most for this.”
Philemon twirled the end of his thin, wispy mustache. “I’m inclined to agree with Gatron. Cerez will be vulnerable, and we’re the kingdom’s largest supplier of food.”
Thatch rubbed his empty eye socket and licked his pale blue lips. “Neptuan will send Hestinia reinforcements to Hestinia. Can’t say it’ll be enough with a new, un-blooded legate right at the border. ”
Arynn leaned forward against the cool marble table and shot him a cold stare with her icy blue eyes. He rolled his eye and chuckled, refusing to meet her gaze. “Look at me, Thatch!” she bellowed.
Some of the men muttered unintelligible comments under their breath. Arynn felt the king’s sharp look transfer from his nephew to her. She knew he was looking for both of them to prove themselves. She didn’t know why Juarez, the other new legate hadn’t, but perhaps he had been an experienced enough warrior to earn a reputation in Ænæria. Arynn wouldn’t know. She hardly knew a thing about the kingdom. Apparently, the king saw something in her, enough to trust her with a key location on the border.
Thatch snarled and flashed a grin riddled with gaps where teeth should have lain. “Oh, I’m looking, girl. Unfortunately, you’re a bit young for my taste. I like my women with a few more years of experience under their belts.”
Sprinkles of red dripped against the smooth tabletop. Thatch swiftly brought his hand to his cheekbone and pulled it back to examine the blood smeared across it. He turned to his right, and his eye brightened as he noticed the fluttering feathers of the trembling arrow lodged in his seat. Arynn held the orange bodark bow diagonally across her midriff. Some of the other legates gasped as she drew another arrow from the pouch on her right thigh which had been hidden from view under her long black cloak.
“How’s that for un-blooded?” she asked Thatch, threatening him to come up with another rotten remark.
Thatch eyed Arynn, his thoughts imperceptible. Arynn held her breath waiting. Maybe I went too far.
He flashed an open smile, the stench of days-old fish wafting toward Arynn. Thatch removed the arrow from his chair, snapped it in half with a faint crack, and laughed. “Oh, I like this one, King! Far more entertaining than Fenwin!”
The king leaned back against his chair, no longer leaning forward on his elbows. He removed his hat and tipped it forward in an exaggerated bow toward Thatch. “I’m glad my decision has earned your approval. I hope the rest of you will as well in time.”
The legates exchanged looks and muttered their agreement with the king.
He placed his fading black hat back over his balding scalp and brushed over his mustache. “Very good. As an extra incentive to my friends on the border, once the enemy has been dealt with, you will have free reign over the lands we conquer. Think of that as repayment for the resources you lose in the conflict.”
Arynn saw the legates from the affected provinces shift in their seats. Gatron, in particular, appeared excited—his eyes widened, and even a faint smile carved on his otherwise dull face.
“I will have an emissary sent to each of you explaining your duties and goals. Our communication will be strictly through the mouths of said emissaries to avoid interception by the cursed Miners Guild. Should you have any questions about tonight’s meeting, relay them to the emissary. I fear I’m growing tired and must retire for the night.” He scooted his tall chair back and stood. He waved his hat at them in a mock bow and retreated into the depths of the hall. He did not look like a king with his average height and regular clothes beaten down by the elements. He walked as if dancing, each step in a rhythm, pounding the hard floor like a percussionist alternating between hard and soft strokes on a drum.
It wasn’t until now that Arynn realized the king’s seat was taller than the others, with the cushioning on the backrest woven not only with the Ænærian crest but also with another just above it—an owl standing sentry above a mountain’s summit. Even in the confines of a stitched symbol, the peak radiated more magnificence than her mind’s image of Vänalleato’s mountaintop village. A chill crept down her neck as she realized how little she missed her home.
She hadn’t always hated it. There were those she loved: her mother and father, the shop with its navigational gadgets and the smell of parchment, freshly painted with a newly crafted map, and her best friend, Sera.
Now those memories were tainted. Her mother had died of plague, her father had kept his many secrets, and Sera had been taken from her. She had learned the truth just before accepting the mantle of legate. Slavers had indeed taken Sera from Vänalleato. But they weren’t working exclusively for Ænæria. No, Vänalleato sold her to the slavers!
Arynn held the bodark bow given to her by Ben. Her fingers squeezed tight against the wood while she ruminated on all the betrayals she’d suffered. The bow had been important to him; she once thought Ben was important to her. Those memories of her time with him, day after day for weeks, nearly growing closer than she had with anyone else. Especially after her time thinking she’d never find someone again. The orange wooden bow was soft against her hands, worn well by the years of use and care. It looked like it had been polished every night by its original owner. Since then it had been chipped and blemished with blood and soot and mud. Funny how she’d used it to kill for the first time. After all, it had been given to her by Ben, who claimed to be above killing—all because of the death of the woman who’d given him this bow in the first place.
She slammed the bow down against her knee, snapping the bow in half as she thought back to the night which changed everything for her.
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