Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (7 page)

Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle

L
ady Rosinnio, wife of Jarl Crawulf, Lord of Wind Isle and all of the surrounding seas, stood stoically at the prow of the ship as it dipped and rose, seeming to smash into every wave while sending a jolt through the vessel. Beside her, her handmaiden knelt over the side, whimpering and retching into the grey and white swell beneath her. Rosinnio would not succumb. She who was of the Royal Sunsai household would not yield to anything so base as the Nort Sea. Even though her stomach was as turbulent as the waves beneath the hull of the wooden boat, she would not give in. Her heart leapt at every creak and groan of the thin planks beneath her feet, her mind raced as she envisaged a watery doom. Although land was still visible through mist and the spray of the sea, she knew it was too far to swim, even if she had the strength to fight the roiling water. She swallowed back a mouthful of burning bile, while her imagination made every motion of the sea a giant arm made of salty water reaching for her.
How was it possible to undertake vast sea voyages in such flimsy crafts?
she wondered, as behind her the crew busied themselves at oars or bailing water.
There is more water inside the cursed boat than in the ocean!
Even so, she would not give in to her fears and treacherous stomach. She did not notice her husband come up behind her, until his harsh, guttural voice sounded in her ear.

“How does it feel, my lady, to rule the waves?” he asked. She found it difficult to tell when he was jesting and when he was serious. It infuriated her, especially at a time when speaking a few simple words was a major chore.

“Am I queen of the sea?” she asked, her words impossibly lighter and more playful than she felt.

“Aye, girl, you will be queen of Nortland and all the seas around her, one day.”

“Jarl Crawulf, perhaps it would be best if some sentiments and aspirations were kept secreted for the time being,” the voice of her husband’s advisor slithered across the wind, making her wonder had they been uttered at all, or were they conjured from her imagination. She did not like the man. She did not like the way he appeared as if from nowhere. No sound or sight and then suddenly he was standing behind her, staring at her.
Was it magic?
She found herself wondering every time her thoughts turned to him.

“Nonsense, Brandlor. She is my wife and will be my queen. I will be my uncle’s successor. Have you not said so yourself?”

“Yes, my Jarl, but patience is….”

“…is for women and weak-willed men!” Crawulf cut him off.

“As you say, my Jarl.” The older man bowed, the wind whipping the thin wisps of white hair. As he rose, his eyes met Rosinnio’s. They were dark like the overhead sky, and hungry as the bottomless sea. They reminded her of a wolf stalking his prey. She looked away first, unable to shake the feeling of insects crawling all over her body. “A storm is coming.” He changed the subject with a glance towards dark clouds on the horizon.

“Aye,” Crawulf agreed, and turned away barking orders at the men as he walked between the rowing benches. A wide rectangular sail crept up the mast, the fabric had been dyed red, the colour of blood. It made Rosinnio shiver at the thought of the vessel creeping inland in some far-off place. Its dragon skull prow-head chasing away the spirits and gods of the poor folk the fearsome Nortmen would regularly raid. They were her people now.

With the wind filling their sail and the angry Baltagor, Lord of the Sea, leading their path, the ship easily reached port before the black rolling clouds and the oncoming storm. Lady Rosinnio had never felt such relief as the moment she took one delicate step onto the dock. Behind her, her handmaiden was all but carried ashore by a giant Nortman covered in furs and unkempt hair. She, however, would disembark without the aid of any man. She met the eyes of her husband as she did so, and the secret smile and wink he gave her filled her with pride. The depth of which took her by surprise.
Did it matter to her that the barbarian warlord she now called husband was proud of her?
It would seem so.

“My lady, we have a carriage waiting to return you to the castle,” a member of Crawulf’s household staff greeted her, an elderly man, with the leather bond of slavery wrapped around his neck. She nodded her thanks and took charge of her maidservant from the huge Nortman warrior, stifling a smile at the poor girl’s suffering and green complexion.

She sat into the back of the wooden cart and pulled a woollen blanket over her and the other girl. Her husband’s bondsman had called it a carriage, a far cry from the ornate transport made from polished wood and inlaid gold she was used to being ferried in as the daughter of an emperor.

The cart rocked and bounced over the uneven surface the Nortmen called a road, little more than a worn path through the countryside. Each jolt sent a wave of pain up Rosinnio’s spine. “I do not know which is worse, the sea or this gods cursed road,” she grumbled. Her maidservant was not listening. She leaned her head against the wall of the carriage, with her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Rosinnio put her head back and tried to ignore the discomfort of the ride. She pulled the woollen blanket up over her shoulders, ignoring the musty smell. The wind picked up blowing rain in through the uncovered windows, landing little icy kisses on her exposed face. Even so, she allowed herself the briefest smile of self-satisfaction. She had not given in to the sea, not this time.

Her mind wandered back to another time, what seemed like a lifetime ago. She was a child, playing in one of the many courtyards throughout the palace. The sun beat down, warming her skin and touching her soul with tendrils of light and warmth. The air was filled with the musky scent of jasmine as she glided across the paving slabs, ducking behind fountains and flat-leafed plants, as she played some game or other conjured from her imagination. Then she heard voices.

“No, father, please don’t do this to me.” She heard her older sister’s voice. She could hear the tears in her words and knew she was crying.

“Enough! You are a daughter of the Sunsai Empire, Brioni. Your duty is to obey your emperor, and you will obey me!” It was rare for her to hear her father’s voice raised. He was usually such a soft-spoken, kindly man… at least to her. She knew, however, that it was wise to avoid him, or at least do his bidding, when dark clouds fouled his mood.

“You would send me to die in the Uncha Mort? Your own daughter,” Rosinnio’s sister cried.

“I am not sending you to die. It is time you were wed, and I have chosen a husband for you,” the emperor answered.

“It is a desert. They are savages. They live in tents and never stay in one place for more than a season. Do you expect me to live that way? I, a princess? Prince Egron of Tarnaia will…”

“Forget Prince Egron! And all of the others. You will marry Khan Bordon, and that is my final word!” From her hiding place, secreted behind a fountain depicting a boy playing a flute, Rosinnio flinched at the anger she heard coming from her father. Her own tears welled at her sister’s sobs of despair. The Uncha Mort was a desert of sand and hard-baked earth dried out under a relentless, burning sun, stretching for hundreds of leagues. Several nomadic tribes roamed there, carrying all they owned on the backs of herds of camels and horses. The desert was a buffer between the southernmost border of the Sunsai Empire and the wild lands beyond. Even as young as she was, Rosinnio could see the need to secure that border, and aligning with the strongest of the nomads was certainly one way of doing it, although she did not envy her sister and the life her father was forcing upon her.

Her eyes snapped open as the cart found a particularly deep pothole, the entire frame shuddered as the team of horses, under the encouragement of a cracking whip, dragged the vehicle onwards. She had not seen her sister since that day. In a cruel turn of events, her next eldest sister was married to Egron the following year. The Prince of Tarnaia did not seem to mind which princess was to be his bride, despite the love Brioni swore he bore her.

To wither away beneath a scorching sun, or bear children with salt in their veins?
If she had to choose which would it be? She pictured her father’s face, the strong jaw carpeted with an oiled and sculpted beard, his shoulder length hair, once jet black, now flecked with grey, slicked back from his forehead. His dark, piercing eyes, capable of exposing your soul, your every thought, with one withering look, stared back at her.

“I have defied the great Nort Sea and not been found wanting. Neither ice nor rock, fire nor wind shall break me. I am my father’s daughter,” she said in a low, even voice. Beside her, her servant stirred and suddenly wretched, spewing black bile onto the floor of the carriage.

Tomas: Woodvale Village

T
omas was falling, tumbling head-over-heels into darkness. When he stopped, Aliss was waiting for him, an uncertain smile twitching at the edges of her full lips. Crimson tears leaked from her eyes dripping onto his chest. He could feel the wetness of the blood pooling there. He reached out to catch the red tears on his finger, but when he touched her cheek the image faded. He called out, aching to see her face, to hear her voice again.

Back into the abyss he fell, falling through the ages until he saw a figure he recognised as himself, but it was not he, not Tomas the blacksmith. It was a younger version of himself, with a harder edge to his eyes, his mouth curled into a snarl. Aliss was there again. This time there was fear in her expression.
Why was there fear in her eyes?
His mind worked around the question, trying to comprehend; yet no understanding came. He took a step towards her, to reassure her. She turned away and fled, throwing cautious glances over her shoulder. When he tried to follow he could not. He realised he was weighed down and anchored to the ground by the weight of heavy armour covering his body. When he lifted his arm slowly and with great effort, a struggle even for the strength of a blacksmith, he saw a sword in his hand, the blade smeared with blood. Aliss stopped and doubled over, agony plainly written on her face. Her dress was stained red.

“Noooo!!!!”

She fell to the ground, and all went dark.

“Shhh. For the love of the gods, quieten down, damn you.” His eyes snapped open. Several moments passed as he, first, tried to figure out who he was, and then where he was. His mouth was parched, his whole body ached, especially the back of his shoulder, where he was sure a flame raged there, blistering his skin and boiling his blood.

“Where…?” His voice cracked, agony shooting through him in waves as he struggled to sit up.

“Hold still, Tomas, you are safe here for now, but if you continue to yell I’m not sure that will continue to be the case for much longer,” Rorbert said.

Memories began to tumble together. A cold feeling of dread washed over him. “Aliss!” He sat up with a jolt, and pain erupted all down his back, bringing tears to his eyes.

“Lie still, you fool, or you will rip open the stitches.” The old villager eased him back down onto the straw-filled bed.

Finally he recognised Rorbert and his cottage. “Water,” he said. The older man quickly held a cup to his lips. Tomas pushed his hand away and gulped the liquid down greedily.

“Easy, too fast and it’ll make you sick.”

Tomas drained the cup and handed it back with a nod of thanks. “What has happened, Rorbert? How am I here?”

“First, let me warn you, keep your voice down. The magistrate’s soldiers are in the village. They are looking for you. They’ve been here for two days, so I’m guessing they’re not going anywhere until they find you. They’re making such a nuisance of themselves that I suspect any one of the village-folk would turn you in just to be rid of them.” Rorbert refilled the cup from a small jug and handed it to Tomas. “As to the second question, Brother Joshan brought you here three days ago. He found you by the river and came to me for help. We would have brought you to the monastery, but it was too far and you were close enough to death as it was. He patched you up and applied the poultice to your wound. If you were wondering what the stink is, it’s the salve Brother Joshan applied.” In truth, Tomas had yet to regain full control and awareness of all his senses, but now that Rorbert mentioned it, his nose wrinkled at the pungent odour. “What happened, Tomas? I was long enough in the King’s Lancers to recognise an arrow wound.”

“Aliss,” he answered, “they took her to the keep. I have to get her back!” Tomas tried to sit up again. This time he took it slower, and with a little help from the village elder, he managed to attain a seated position. Pain still shot though him, forcing a grimace and several silent curses.

“You are in no condition to go anywhere.” Rorbert shook his head.

“Where is Brother Joshan now?” Tomas asked through gritted teeth.

“He was here this morning. He said he would look in later.”

“Find him,” Tomas interrupted.

“You are in no position to…”

“Find him!” Tomas insisted, causing Rorbert to take a step back.

“Okay, but first eat something.” Tomas nodded his assent and eased himself off the bed, while Rorbert piled some bread and smoked meat on a wooden plate, before placing it on the only table in the room. “I’ll be back shortly. Don’t leave this room,” the village elder said before turning and leaving.

Easing himself into a rickety wooden chair, Tomas contemplated the meal. His stomach growled loudly reminding him he had not eaten in days.

A little while later, exactly how long he couldn’t be sure, he was woken from a restless slumber by the sound of the door creaking.

“Come in, come in quickly,” Rorbert instructed anxiously. Behind him a figure in a grey-hooded robe ducked through the narrow doorway. Once inside, the priest pushed back the cowl to reveal a worn unshaven face, with tufts of grey hair standing on top of an otherwise bald head. Cold, hard eyes, the colour of a winter sky regarded him.