Orphan's Blade (3 page)

Nathaniel found the princess glancing nervously at the forming crowd. He walked to her and offered her his hand. “Princess. If you will, I’ll announce your arrival.”

She took his hand, squeezing hard. Her fingers shook. “Please, by all means.”

Nathaniel helped her down, then brought her before the crowd. “Come to us from the House of Song, the only daughter of King Valorian and the late Queen Mayweather, may I announce Princess Valoria.”

Whispers filled the air. One person managed a meager clap. With Nathaniel’s insisting glare, light applause spread.

“They do not trust me,” Valoria whispered, loud enough only he could hear.

“Not yet.” Nathaniel turned toward her and gave her the reassuring look he usually gave to the troops before a battle. The way she’d chosen to ride instead of retreating to her carriage told him there was more to her than a simple minstrel’s daughter. “But in time, they will.”

She surveyed the crowd with a tight-lipped smile, then turned to him. “Please, I must see my people’s wounds cared for.”

“Of course. Medics usher them to the infirmary as we speak. You can stay there as long as you like. But, keep in mind the king and queen are waiting to receive you.”

She pursed her lips as if weighing her personal needs with offending her new family. “I’ll stay only long enough to see them tended to.” She pulled her harp from her back and handed it to her handmaiden, a brown-haired girl with a fierce look about her.

“Very well.” He offered his arm. Better to keep her beside him then have some hired assassin pull her into the crowd. Ebonvale’s hatred for the minstrels ran deep, even though they had helped them win the wyvern war. “Come with me.”

The crowd parted before them. Her retinue followed as they walked the cobblestone from the main square to the apothecary, a stone building with vibrant stained glass windows. Various bottles, vials, and rolls of bandages lined the walls. Behind the counter, a backroom filled with beds took up the space of an old, attached barn. Patients from previous raider attacks filled half the beds. Hopefully they’d have enough room for Valoria’s people and the prisoners they’d captured.

Guilt stung his chest as he saw one of the raiders chained to the bed. He’d have to interrogate him later on, a chore he never liked. But, if he let Brax get to the man, he’d be dead by morning.

Valoria rushed to the bedside of the older man Nathaniel had helped her carry back to the carriage. The intricate embroidery on his overcoat labeled him as someone of high status in the House of Song. Perhaps a music teacher? His kind eyes reminded Nathaniel of Ludo, the baker in Shaletown who used to slip him sweet biscuits when his parents weren’t looking.

She touched the medic’s arm with insistence. “Will he live?”

“He’ll have an ugly scar, but yes, he’ll live to see another day.” The medic nodded curtly and rushed to the next bed where another minstrel clutched an arrow speared through his shoulder.

Valoria leaned over the old man, and his eyes flickered open. “Did you hear that? A hideous battle scar. Your pupils will listen to you now.”

“Anything to get them to practice.” He chuckled, then held onto his shoulder as if the movement pained him.

Valoria took his hand in both of hers. “My father will be proud of your bravery.”

“And yours.” He tapped her hand. “Although you should have listened to me and stayed in the carriage. You’re too important to both kingdoms to lose.”

“Lose?” She laughed cynically. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Hopefully, you’re going to the throne room, my lady. Shouldn’t keep the king and queen waiting.” The older man glanced at Nathaniel. He nodded, then backed farther away. He shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on their conversation. This unhealthy preoccupation with his brother’s intended had to stop.

Valoria leaned over and touched the old man’s forehead. She whispered something in his ear, then left him to survey the other wounded minstrels.

Nathaniel kept his distance. Instead of following her to each of her people’s beds, he approached the chained raider. He was just a boy with red fuzz for a beard and freckles sprinkled across his dirty cheeks. Sprawled across the bed in tattered clothing, he breathed laboriously, as if each intake of air would be his last. A nasty gash stretched across his stomach. Nathaniel’s gut tightened. This boy must have been close to his real brother’s age the day the wyverns attacked Shaletown.

Pill. His true brother. He hadn’t thought of him in years.

The boy spit at Nathaniel, wriggling against his bindings. “You might as well kill me now, because I’m telling you nothing.”

Nathaniel leaned down, examining the cut. The medic had staunched the bleeding, but the wound ran deep. With so many of their own people needing care, the battlefield surgeon would treat him last. He probably wouldn’t live through the night.

This could have been him, or Pill, if he’d survived the attack. Where had Ebonvale gone wrong?

“Listen closely, I’m not here to weed out your friends, just relocate them. Temple monks purge the southern lands as we speak. Soon the soil will be ripe for planting. All Ebonvale needs are people willing to go back.”

The boy winced and held his stomach. “Lies. All of it. That soil won’t grow a sprig if you brought your royal horse to fertilize it himself.”

A few soldiers standing by the door placed their hands on their hilts and stepped forward. Nathaniel waved them back. “How do you know if you do not try? It cannot be much worse than raiding caravans on the road for scraps.”

“Starve here or starve there, the only difference is the scenery.”

The prisoner was right about that. The wyverns had scorched most of the south, leaving a dry wasteland. The temple monks had a large undertaking in reclaiming it. But, they’d never succeed without volunteers to cultivate the land.

The boy grabbed his arm, leaving bloody fingerprints on his armor. “What do you know of loss? You have a castle, an army, fancy armor, sprawling orchards.”

Nathaniel met the boy’s accusing stare. “Shaletown was my home. The wyverns took my entire family away from me. You have to make something of what fate has given you, or else you’ll always be a victim.”

“I’m not a victim. I’m a fighter.” The boy pulled his arm away.

Nathaniel shook his head, wishing he could believe him. When he looked down at that bed, he saw himself.

Someone cleared their throat behind him. Nathaniel turned around, feeling as though he’d woken from a daze.

Valoria crossed her arms and steeled her gaze like a warrior charging into battle. Blood stained her white gown across her breasts and down her arm. “I’m ready.”

If only he could bring her a new dress. Nathaniel thought of the shop across the street, then paused. Perhaps she’d done this on purpose to show the effort and the loss the minstrels had poured into this union. Who was he to take that away and pretty her up like some prize to be won?

“Very well.” He signaled to the soldiers at the door and offered his arm. She placed her hand on his armor, light as a feather, and he led her back outside where her retinue waited. The minstrels still able to play began their fanfares, and they walked to the throne room.

When they were out of earshot from the others, Valoria turned toward him. “Tell me about your brother.”

Nathaniel kept the emotion from his face. What could he tell her and still be truthful without driving her away?

“Brax is a strong and proud man, and a born leader. He has a clear vision of what Ebonvale should be and fights for that ideal every day of his life.”

Valoria pursed her lips as if he’d told her nothing she wanted to hear. “Is he kind-hearted?”

Nathaniel resisted the urge to flinch. Kind was not the appropriate word to describe Brax. “He has a strong sense of justice.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“No.” But it would have to do.

They climbed the marble-veined steps to Helena and Horred’s ancient temple. Most of the rock had been reconstructed or replaced, but a few of the great steps of the past remained. Nathaniel always felt honored to walk upon them.

They entered the main antechamber and climbed the spiral steps to the main hall above. Paintings of the previous monarchs and their families adorned the walls. Valoria studied each one carefully. Why not give her some information that might help her at court later on?

Nathaniel pointed to the first painting. “This was King Artemis Rubystone, slayer of the great Necromancer King, and ruler of Ebonvale for twenty-five years.” He motioned to the painting beside it, this one framed in rubies and gold. “Here is his first wife, Islador of the Northern Isles. She died of a fever only a year after they married, but he never stopped loving her memory.”

“So I’ve heard.” Valoria raised an eyebrow.

He wondered if she knew the king’s undying love for Islador had driven his second wife into the minstrel’s arms. “This is his second wife, Sybil of Jamal. Although you may have heard the stories of her exile, she now lives in the farthest turret on the southern side of the castle and advises her daughter, the queen.”

Sybil’s delicate, youthful face in the painting was much different than the wrinkled, sun-splotched old woman she’d grown into. Yet, she’d grown wiser as well, at least in Nathaniel’s eyes. Although not well liked by Ebonvale’s people, she was like a grandmother to him.

“I’m not like others. I do not judge matters which I’m not a part of.”

Nathaniel nodded, impressed. This minstrel woman would be a fair ruler someday. He pointed up ahead. “Next are the king and queen.”

Danika stood with Bron at her side. Her fierce stare showed the passion underlying her regal composure, while her hand gripping tightly on Bron’s arm showed her undying love for her husband. She’d risked the kingdom’s safety taking Bron instead of Valoria’s father as her husband. She loved the warrior more than anything in the world.

Nathaniel paused, studying the pair. Maybe someday, he’d find such a love.

“Finally, here’s the portrait you’ve been waiting for: Braxten Thoridian, son of Danika and Bron.” His brother stood in his silver battle armor, brandishing his thick, jewel-crusted claymore as if preparing to slay a wyvern.

Valoria paused at Brax’s painting. The paint revealed the hard lines of his massive jaw, sleek shaved head, and barrel-shaped nose. Some women were drawn to intimidation and strength. But her face gave away no emotion.

Nathaniel leaned toward her, searching her silver eyes. He’d be lying if he told himself he didn’t care what she thought.

Empty Throne

Valoria struggled to keep a straight face as she beheld her future intended. With arms wide as tree trunks, a square nose and beady eyes, he reminded her more of a raging bull than a man. He oozed masculinity and strength, but lacked tenderness in his blunt features. He looked more apt to slice off her arm than bring her flowers.

She glanced away, unable to hold Brax’s war-hungry gaze. One painting was missing from the rest. Where was Nathaniel’s likeness?

The soldier stood at arm’s length, studying the painting of the king and queen. Still, she could feel his gaze burn her cheek when she wasn’t looking in his direction. “Why are you not on this wall?”

“I have no place there. I am not of their blood. Come.” He gestured toward the throne room. “We should not tarry.”

Valoria bit her tongue. Right. When the question focuses on him, he ushers her ahead. How could she tell him she wasn’t ready? Would she ever be?

The large oaken doors spread open, inviting them in. Attendants wearing velvet robes in Ebonvale’s purple colors bowed as the procession passed and entered the main audience chamber. The pennants of the house of Thoridian dangled from lofty rafters, waving lazily in the breeze from open windows.

On the floor, marble tiles depicted the galaxy above, with swirling cosmic clouds and glinting stars of mica. The artist’s work represented Ebonvale’s never-ending reach throughout the world, stretching throughout the universe. Valoria tried not to compare their arrogant design with the House of Song’s peaceful dome.

At the center of the cosmos stood three thrones made from the pillars of Helena and Horred’s temple before the dead army stomped their palace to ruins. Ancient craftsmen had carved climbing ivy and wandering butterflies in the ivory. Some of the images had broken off or crumbled. Yet, by the places where the artwork remained unscathed, she could sense how beautiful the ancient temple must have been.

The doors closed behind her, leaving her to face her new family with no way to escape. If only she had her harp to calm herself with soothing tones.

King Bronford Thoridian sat on the largest throne to the right, wearing his battle armor. His shaved head gleamed pale white like his son’s. But this man had kinder eyes. Whether because of the slight wrinkles around them, or by a hint of sympathy, Valoria did not know.

Beside the king sat Danika Thoridian, the woman who’d stolen her father’s heart. Even though the queen had aged past her prime, her blonde hair glowed golden in the sun, and her sharp green eyes sparkled like emeralds. A necklace of five violet pearls lay around her neck. She was gorgeous, and Valoria could see why her father had been taken with the former princess.

The queen’s foxy features showed compassion where Valoria thought there’d be none. “Helena’s sword! Are you harmed, my child?”

“No, my lady.” Valoria bowed slowly before them, ensuring all saw her bloodied dress. “But the House of Song has sacrificed much to come.”

“As it always has.” Sadness weighed down the queen’s pretty face.

Valoria straightened, studying her. What other emotions lurked in the furrow of the Queen’s perfect brow? Regret? Valoria crossed her arms. “And will continue to do to ensure our people’s union.” Her chest tightened. Had she said too much?

Danika Thoridian’s lips pursed as she stood. “Hopefully, your sacrifice is at an end.”

Hadn’t it just started? An uncomfortable silence reigned as Valoria struggled to keep that last thought to herself. As if to ease the awkwardness of the moment, the king stood and walked down the steps to take her arm. His fingers were rough with calluses and thick as sausages, but his skin was clean. She’d heard he hadn’t been in battle since he’d damaged his left knee running after raiders last year.