King Callie: Callie's Saga, Book One (7 page)

“You killed him for no reason, then?” the soldier asked.

“No,” Kells said. “He almost brought us to war with the Erimeni. All of you, remember that,” Kells said, as he turned to face the other soldiers. “Because that’s our truth. The one we keep in our hearts, and never utter. We never speak a word of it. We’ll bring him home,” Kells said. “Then, we’ll say their truth. Two men died in battle. I fought alongside the Prince, and we saved the peace.”

“Why keep that secret?” the bitter soldier asked. “Tell the kingdom. Let them know what a bastard he was. He deserves it.”

“Because I asked you to,” Kells said, fiercely, tears brimming in his eyes, “I took his life so you could live. All of you. And I broke my oath to do it. I killed someone wretched - a rotten shell of a man. But when we return, I want them to mourn a hero. When we return, I want to protect his memory. Understood?” There were mumbles of discontent; Kells would not be deterred. “Is that understood?” Kells said again, louder, more forceful than before; the guards responded with resounding affirmation.

The Captain of the Guard mounted his horse, and had a last look at the Erimeni village, and took a deep breath. He kicked his heels into the horse’s sides, and it thundered down the path from the village – towards Nemi’s Fist, and the borders of the Freelands. The rest of the soldiers followed behind him; he hoped the secret of the dead prince on his horse’s back would stay just that: secret.

CHAPTER EIGHT

For two days, Caliandra stewed in worry and discomfort. She’d regretted her last words to him; how could she have called him that? She was right, but she had no right to it. She told herself that Valric had succeeded, and was on his way home, but she also woke up panicked, in the middle of the night; she saw him fight, and fall, and felt the blade slide into his gut as if it had pierced her own. She’d barely eaten. Eliya was hardly so concerned, and dismissed many of Caliandra’s worries over lunch. It was the first meal Caliandra had been able to stomach since Valric left, and only barely.

“This is neither the most dangerous nor the most idiotic thing he’s done,” Eliya said, as they supped on white wine and sweet custard in the dining hall. The early afternoon light cascaded through the windows, and pleasantly lit Eliya’s face and her light blue dress; her friend Hanne, a lady who held no small measure of bitterness for Caliandra, sat at Eliya’s side in a soft yellow dress. “Valric will be fine,” Eliya continued. “He’s an expert swordsman. Kells is with him, as are seven of our finest guards, and his horses run like the wind. You needn’t worry at all. He’ll be back, and if Royth is right, Father will be in good health again. Be hopeful, sister.”

“I do, all the same,” Caliandra grumbled. “He didn’t even bother to say goodbye to Father.”

That lowered Eliya’s smile. “He didn’t?” she asked, concerned.

“Why should he?” Hanne said, bordering on smug. “If his trip is quick, and the flower works, it won’t be necessary.” Eliya almost corrected her, but held her tongue; Caliandra noticed, and wished she hadn’t.

Caliandra had never truly understood what made Eliya and Hanne such good friends. They had little in common, other than being noble, socially inclined, and occasionally cutting with their remarks. Caliandra dipped her spoon into the custard, and brought the creamy, sweet delight to her mouth as she dreamed of interesting ways for Hanne to fall off cliffs. Caliandra’s dear friend, dark-haired Mae, sat to her left, rapt by the conversation; she had already eaten her custard, and was waiting for seconds.

“You do recall the time he and his friends found the fighting ring in Ariac last summer, don’t you?” Eliya asked Caliandra, with disdain for the memory. Caliandra saw her sister delicately fill her spoon with custard – such gentle, graceful movements. They contrasted greatly with the disgusted tone of her voice. Mae’s eyes widened at Eliya’s words.

Caliandra remembered too well; one of Valric’s friends returned handless; another, headless, by the hand of some pit fighter. The king opposed Valric’s desire for revenge, and demanded he do nothing. Valric disappeared for two weeks with nary a word; when Valric returned, he was at the side of the dead lord’s father, each grinning and holding a severed head; one belonged to the fighter. The other, the man who ran the fighting ring. King Rionn was furious.

“Father spent the better part of a year trying to fix that mess,” Caliandra commented, as she dug her spoon into her bowl. “As I remember, it was the Duke of Montagny who’d arranged the spectacle for his peasants, and had made a hefty profit on the gambling. He wasn’t pleased to see it end, and King Luc was less thrilled to hear about the consequences.”

“Why did Valric go in the first place?” Mae asked, curious, leaning forward ever so slightly towards Caliandra. Dark black curls fell about Mae’s tanned face, hardly hiding her wide hazel eyes. “Did he tell you?”

There was a sharp, pitched laugh from across the table. “Why do you think men do anything?” Hanne replied drolly, with a condescending smirk. “Or don’t you know
anything
about them?”

Mae blushed, and scowled. “I do,” she said. “I know about generals, and warriors, and kings, and inventors...”

“Titles aren’t as important as motivations,” Hanne said, as she raised an eyebrow, and smiled at Eliya. “Your betrothed wouldn’t do something so stupid for his own glory. He’s a hunter, not a fighter.”

“Actually,” Eliya said, arching an eyebrow as she dug into her custard, “He might. But only to irk his father. Valkko is a… rather insistent man,” she said, after a brief pause – where Caliandra thought she might have risked saying something less kind. “I wish Mas wouldn’t try to fight him as much as he did. Laus has far more pressure from their father, and he handles it admirably.”

“That’s different,” Hanne said. “Your brother is trying to be a man on his own terms. You should encourage him. At the very least, the arguments with his father would be enjoyable to watch.”

Eliya paused, to drink from her cup of wine, and avoid Hanne’s suggestion. “This is rather good,” she remarked, distracted from her train of thought. “Callie, do you know where it’s from?”

“Della Ferra, near the east Selenian coast,” Caliandra replied. “From Uncle Nessio’s vineyards.”

“Goodness,” Eliya said, surprised. “I hope he’ll have enough for the wedding. Mas’s family would drink it by the gallon.”

“You were saying about his brother?” Hanne asked, politely interrupting her. “He’s the one who’s set to be King, isn’t he?”

“Sorry. It’s… it’s a very good pairing,” Eliya said, with a smile. “And Laus is married, unfortunately.”

“Very much so,” Hanne said, a wide smirk on her face, accompanied by a raised eyebrow. It irritated Caliandra, as did most things about Hanne; she was haughty, self-important, ambitious, and, thanks to her friendship with Eliya, a frequent companion. Luckily, Hanne hadn’t said anything about Iaen’s marriage; that might’ve been the drop that spilled over.

“I suppose,” Eliya said. “And what about you?”

“You know my luck,” Hanne said, drolly. “All of those dreadful, backwater boys from home have sent me flowery poems and declarations of love. It’d be adorable if it wasn’t pathetic.”

“Maybe that’s as good as you’ll get,” Caliandra said, glaring at Hanne from across the table. Hanne clenched her jaw, and gripped her spoon with unladylike anger, before a smirk crossed her face.

“At least they’re still interested in me,” Hanne said, raising an eyebrow for emphasis as she turned to Caliandra. “I heard Lord Iaen’s already married... He couldn’t run away from you fast enough, could he?”

Eliya glared at her; Mae seemed shocked that Hanne would say such things. Caliandra had expected them, and hoped Hanne would be decent enough not to mention them. But were their positions reversed, she might’ve been tempted to do the same. “Yes,” Caliandra said. “He is, and I have wished them endless luck.”

“You should’ve saved that for yourself, I think,” Hanne snapped. “They have money, after all. You’ll need quite a bit of luck when your father’s passed.”

Caliandra couldn’t believe her ears. “Excuse me?” she said, as her gaze darted upward, filled with anger.

But insult was added to injury; Eliya politely inserted herself between them. “What Hanne meant to say is that you should be more… proactive in approaching suitors. You can’t afford to be as passive as you are, in your position.”

Should I
? Caliandra thought, angrily.
Or should you stand with your sister, instead of your friend
?

“Your sister’s right,” Hanne said, with a smirk. “I think you should listen to her advice.”

“I think you enjoy this too much for a lady,” Caliandra said, as she scowled, glaring hatred back at Hanne. “And don’t you dare bring up my father’s health.”

“Maybe I won’t need to, if your brother returns,” Hanne replied. “But he should’ve come back by now, shouldn’t he?”

Caliandra saw disapproval flash across her sister’s face. But again, she took no stand, and made no effort to put Hanne in her place. “We must think in the positive,” she said, “And pray that Yom guides him home safely.”

“I agree,” Hanne said, as she stood up, and looked right into Caliandra’s eyes. “Let’s pray very hard, indeed.”

Caliandra had a different prayer in mind, involving certain ladies and falls from great heights. And food poisoning. All the same, she forced a smile. “Of course,” Caliandra said. “Yom bless him.”

“She was so awful,” Mae whispered later, as they left the dining room. “Why didn’t your sister say anything?”

“Why do you think?” Caliandra groaned. “Eliya’d rather have a friendship than a sister.” At that, Mae wrinkled her nose, and a lightly disgusted look spread across her freckled face.

“What kind of friend would say what she did?” Mae asked. “That was so rude. So rude!”

It warmed Caliandra’s heart to hear that. “She’s right, though,” Caliandra said, sadly. “That’s the worst of it. If he fails…”

“Don’t think of that,” Mae said, shaking her head. “He’s taken up too much of your mind today. He’ll be back on the morrow, Callie. Have faith in that.” She took Caliandra’s arm, and pulled her away from the dining hall, towards the south corridor. “Come, let’s go find Janni. Singing a few rounds always cheers you up.”

Caliandra didn’t want to be cheered up, though; she only wanted her brother back.

CHAPTER NINE

The Seer could not sleep, or find any semblance of a settled mind. He’d also run out of wine, and woja besides; empty bottles of comfort lay scattered on his floor. He’d regretted not buying more in the village, the last time he’d been in. But a stray thought reminded him of the King’s store of wine in the buttery. Few would notice bottles going missing, with the King in the condition he was. He decided to take a walk; either way, if Valric lived or died, what would theft matter?

No
, he told himself.
The old me would’ve taken what he wanted. But I am not Zstraki anymore; I am soft, on purpose
.

He walked the corridors at an even pace, and acknowledged the stern guards as he passed; he felt a certain nervousness in their presence, the kind he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since he’d first come to Castle Claine, and their eyes had tracked him with eminent distrust wherever he went - the Amaniren, the dark-skinned man who came from Yom-knew-where and claimed he could see the future, was suspicious indeed. After countless correct predictions, their wariness eased. They weren’t looking at him with such caution now, at all; his was a feeling born of guilty nerves, still wondering if he’d be caught. Royth found the buttery, easily enough; a few silver smoothed the palm of the guard on duty, and minutes later, Royth emerged from the cellar with a bottle of Silenian red. He hardly cared for vintage or origin; he only wanted inebriation. He uncorked the bottle, and began to drink as he walked back to his room.

As he strolled near the north corridor, he found commotion in the hallway. Fenwyn, the King’s Minister of the Interior, was arguing with the king’s physician - a lean and dowdy man who’d never made any strong impression on Royth otherwise. Fenwyn’s hands were at his hips, and long red hair spilled over the shoulders of his green embroidered doublet. His delicate, thin features and emerald eyes, however, were twisted in displeasure. The physician’s arms were crossed, and he barred the way to the King’s chambers like a slender stone wall.

“Let me in,” Fenwyn protested. “We need to discuss urgent matters of state.”

The healer cut him off. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Come back in the morning, Sir Fenwyn. He’s tired, as am I, and the hour is late.”

“Listen,” Fenwyn said, jabbing a finger at the healer. “You leech-peddling peasant, you’ve barely let me conduct my business during the day as it is. I can’t see him at night, I can’t see him in the day, I can’t see him in the morning - shall I visit him in his dreams, then? Hmm?”

“His condition is getting worse,” the healer said, leveling his gaze, “If you’d like him to die faster, than by all means, pass through the doors.”

Fenwyn hesitated, then sighed. “Fine,” he said. “What if I were to leave letters with you? Would you read them to him?”

“Goodnight, Sir Fenwyn,” the healer said, walking away from the King’s room. Fenwyn moved to knock, but restrained himself, and muttered curses under his breath.