‘Ah.’ He put the crystal back in his shirt. ‘Then now isn’t the time.’ He stood up. ‘You have two months to grieve. Then, we marry as planned.’
‘Marry you! I never want to look at you again.’ At least he doesn’t know I can change the future sometimes, if I act quickly enough. But not this time! Oh Papa, I failed you.
His eyes darkened. ‘It doesn’t matter what you want, my dear. You will learn to do exactly as I say.’ He went to the door. ‘I count the minutes till we meet again, my beautiful bride to be.’
Torina wanted to yell with all her might, but her throat closed. Vesputo would kill her friends, as he had threatened. She shuddered, staring at the wall.
A woman entered, dressed in an ornate gown of pale yellow silk, her long blonde braid extending below an embroidered cap, a light veil covering her face. She lifted the veil.
‘Irene is here to provide you with a woman’s care,’ Vesputo said over his shoulder as he left.
This fresh outrage frayed Torina even more. She felt as if her life were a dropped stitch that could never be knit again.
Irene freed her from the bonds, asking if she wanted anything to eat or drink. Miserably, Torina refused. Her stomach signalled no hunger. She lay down, silently begging sleep to take her away.
As Landen directed his horse toward Missht Pass in the Cheldan Mountains, he was glad of the chance to be utterly alone. Here, even nature was foreign: cold and desolate, filled with nothing but stones and bone-aching wind. He was heading for Desante, Archeld’s neighbour to the east. He knew little about Desante, beyond the rudiments of geography, which reported thick forests and vast farmlands. And he knew the name of her king: Ardesen.
Desante was bordered by the Cheldan Mountains, and Missht Pass was the most treacherous crossing point. Far to the south, the mountains were less steep: Angrera Pass was much more hospitable, but probably well guarded. Landen hoped that by choosing this lonely path, he could skirt any outposts guarding the border, and shake any pursuers. The Missht landscape was so forbidding, there was only one thin track. The harsh environment seemed a fitting companion for Landen’s heart as he sped on his way.
Time was everything: Landen wasted none of it. He rode without stopping, filled with a hundred emotions that all seemed to return to one thing – the impossibility of staying near Torina when she faced a ruthless enemy. His sadness and danger fuelled the long, sleepless ride.
What did he take with him, to start life in another foreign land? His mind, his aching heart, his skilled hands. He must sell the horse that knew him like a friend; get rid of the thick hooded cloak that allowed him to weather the pass.
‘Along with everything else that belongs to my life in Archeld,’ he said to a twisted pine clinging to boulders above the tree line.
Sorrowfully, he surveyed Archeld one last time from the summit. The view let him see a long way in every direction.
North was Glavenrell, where King Dahmis had grown into a powerful peacemaker seeking broad alliances. The northern kings honoured him as the high king in disputes over boundaries or trade. Landen still wanted to serve Dahmis. But depending on when Vesputo struck, he might already be a hunted man. He didn’t want to present himself to King Dahmis with nothing to offer but a price on his head. If Vesputo struck down Kareed, Landen knew he was the chosen scapegoat.
He pondered the strangeness of life, which brought him to hope Kareed would live into old age. So it was: he prayed for a reprieve for Veldon’s murderer, the despoiler of Bellandra, the destroyer of Bellandra’s Sword. As long as the invader lived, Torina would be protected.
Southwest lay the province of Archeld that had once been Bellandra. Landen no longer felt drawn to go there. Every bit of knowledge he’d been able to gain about his former homeland told him it was nothing like the place of his boyhood. Oh, there were still artisans at work there: Bellandran pottery brought a high price in the markets; Bellandran weaving was all the fashion. But greed seemed to be the new ruler: people reportedly fought hard for the right to control wealth. And all the mystic healers and seers had disappeared. It was whispered they’d vanished as soon as Bellandra fell. There were even rumours that they’d never truly existed.
King Veldon’s face drifted vaguely across Landen’s inner vision. Veldon’s last words had been about Bellandra’s Sword. ‘Landen. The Sword of Bellandra. Take it and hide. Find someone to teach you . . . to fight.’ But the young man could hardly remember his father’s features. The wondrous Sword still shone, deep in the heart of Bellandra’s prince, but only when he looked inward far enough, and he seldom looked any more. The Sword hadn’t saved Bellandra, and everyone agreed it was destroyed, its mystery and magic a thing of the past.
When he turned his horse, he could pinpoint the location of the garrison guarding the Desantian border. From his vantage, he picked out a way to go round it. A cold rain began. Landen ordered images of Torina to leave him and started down the mountain to Desante.
Vesputo sat in a large carved chair in the king’s rooms, flanked by Beron and Toban, his compatriots in treachery. Toban was a valuable man. Not only was he formidably strong, he also understood plants very well. Dreea had dropped from exhausted grief and anxiety, helped into sleep by a strong potion he had mixed.
There was a tap on the door. Irene entered, swishing her skirts. Vesputo smiled.
‘What news?’
‘She’s asleep. The door is locked.’
Vesputo nodded to Toban, and the large man left the room. He would stand guard over Torina’s door.
‘Come close, Irene, I want to show you something,’ Vesputo said.
She rubbed against him, smiling. He kissed her, savouring her lips.
‘What did you want to show me?’
From a drawer near his chair, he took Torina’s crystal, handing it to Irene. ‘Look into it, my love. Do you see anything?’
She held the glittering sphere in her lap, staring into it. This was the stone that had changed all his plans. Vesputo waited curiously, wondering if the crystal’s magic would work for Irene. He’d already tried looking himself, without success. Perhaps it only performed for females.
Irene looked up at him. ‘It’s blank as glass, my lord.’
Disappointed, Vesputo reached for the crystal. She held on to it, smiling at him.
‘If you let me have it, I might learn to use it. Then I could see the future for you, my lord.’
‘Hmmm. Interesting, my love. I’ll consider your request. Perhaps. You might want to see what you can find out from Torina, as you’ll be looking after her.’
In the cemetery where Ancilla had been buried only a few days before, a great crowd of mourners gathered for the funeral of their king. A large marble headstone displayed his epitaph: Kareed Archelda, mighty king, beloved husband and father.
Vesputo stood beside the priest, head solemnly bowed. Beside him, Queen Dreea wept. Torina was conspicuously absent.
The priest gave an eloquent eulogy. He spoke of Kareed’s many victories, prosperous kingdom, wise judgements. Vesputo grew restless as the minutes dragged on, though not a quiver betrayed him. At last the service was complete, the prayers delivered, the flowers laid out. Vesputo moved closer to Dreea and took her hand.
‘Torina’s door is still barred to me,’ she sobbed, her face ravaged. Vesputo was pleased. There were people watching. The news would travel quickly. ‘When I knock, her voice tells me to go away. If I didn’t hear her myself, I couldn’t believe it. Not to pay her respects to her father! Torina loved him.’
‘She is distraught, madam.’
Dreea cried harder. ‘Yet she will see you.’
‘I give what comfort I can.’
‘Tonight I’ll have her door broken down. She cannot remain alone!’
‘My dear Queen, I know your heart is aching. Still, I would not advise breaking down the door. Her reason is too fragile now.’
‘Oh! My king! My only child!’ Dreea buried her face in her hands.
Torina lay awash on a sea of suffering. Oh, why hadn’t she been wiser? She’d failed herself, failed her kingdom, and fatally failed her father.
Irene prattled at Torina constantly, reporting every bit of vicious gossip in the castle. Did Torina know everyone thought she was mad? Had she heard how soldiers were combing the land for Landen, and that he wouldn’t get far?
Torina’s heart pounded in fury at the thought of Landen taking the blame for Vesputo’s crime. At the same time, an angry voice berated him for deserting her, just when he was needed most. Why didn’t he warn her sooner? It was all too late. Too late.
She wanted her grandmother desperately, and the only solace she found was that at least with Gramere there had been time to say goodbye. But that always brought her father to mind. She kept seeing him in front of her, waiting for her words. How terrible was the finality of death. Not even to see his face one last time!
And her mother. Every day, Dreea came to her door begging to be allowed in. Every day, Torina forced herself to send the queen away, listened to her weeping cries, and hated Vesputo more.
He visited often, asking her about the crystal. She played the part of flustered, inept female trying to coax visions from a recalcitrant stone. She did everything she could to convince him the crystal only gave her occasional images and that most of the time what she saw confused her.
‘What has it told you of your own future?’ he once asked.
‘I’ve never seen my own future,’ she told him, hoping that mixing an honest answer in with half-lies would give the ring of truth to all she said.
‘No? What about mine?’
‘All I’ve seen of you is the crown on your head.’
There was a glint of triumph in his eye. ‘Ah.’ She could see her answer pleased him. ‘Tell me why you were with Kareed in his study that day.’
That day. The day he died. The day everything changed.
‘I wanted to tell him I wouldn’t marry you.’
‘Why? Why didn’t you see me when I returned?’
‘Because I heard about Irene.’
‘You didn’t see Irene in the crystal?’
‘No.’
‘Who told you?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You lie.’
‘And you, Vesputo. You don’t even know what the truth is.’
The look he gave her made her shiver with abhorrence: a half-amused, deprecating stare. ‘Perhaps it’s best this way, my love.’
He stood, and she was glad. It meant he would soon leave, and she’d rather listen to Irene’s vapid chatter than spend time with Vesputo. ‘Your mourning period is almost up. Soon, we’ll be man and wife, and then you can have your crystal back. You’ll learn to use it better, and tell me everything it tells you.’
Later that evening, Irene couldn’t do enough for Torina. She hovered round, smiling and sweet.
‘I believe I’ll go to bed, Irene.’
‘Oh! Yes. Would you like me to brush your hair? It’s so beautiful, especially in the firelight.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Torina, I wonder if you would answer a little question for me?’
‘What is it?’
‘What makes the crystal work?’
Torina smiled inside. Irene had given her the perfect opening to tell the lie she had so carefully concocted during her hours alone. ‘Don’t tell Vesputo, but only a woman can make it tell the future.’
Irene nodded eagerly. ‘I won’t tell.’
‘You have to take it out during the full moon, and then again when the moon is dark. You have to be all alone when you do it. That part was ever so hard for me. Then it will start showing you visions, Irene.’
Landen had no trouble evading the garrison that guarded the border. When he reached Desante, he rode for a half-day without stopping, to distance himself from the edges of Archeld. Then he chose a prosperous, secluded farm to trade his stallion for a less valuable Desantian mare and some money.
He made his way to a bustling village not far from the main city of Desan. After examining passers-by, he searched the shops and bought warm black trousers, a flowing shirt of dark red, sturdy boots and a quilted jacket. Most Desantian men had short beards. Landen was glad he’d let his grow since leaving Archeld. In a few days, his thick whiskers would pass for native. He gave his Archeldan clothes to a beggar, trusting dirt and deprivation to erase their foreign lines and help lose his trail. He was bound to be tracked, but he would hide his footsteps wherever he could. His next move was to sell all the weapons he’d brought with him, down to the bow made with his own hands.
He watched as an ageing shopkeeper stowed his bow and sword out of sight and handed him a bag of coins in return.
‘Beautiful workmanship, that,’ the man remarked, eyeing him curiously.
‘Aye. Down on my luck or I wouldn’t sell,’ Landen answered.
‘Can you use them?’ The shopkeeper jerked his head at an array of swords and bows hung on his wall.
Landen nodded.
‘A young, strong man like yourself, with knowledge of weapons, should enlist.’
‘Are they taking soldiers, then?’
‘Oh, very particular, but the king always needs men at the ready.’
‘Particular?’
‘Well, if you have your own weapons and know the business, you stand a chance.’ The man’s gaze went back to his display.
‘How much for a plain sword and bow?’
The man stroked his chin. ‘Well, I’ve a customer will buy everything you’ve sold me, so I can make you a rare deal.’
‘Indeed?’
‘We seldom get the Archeldan swords, and truth be known they’re better metal. And that bow, why, a master craftsman made it.’
Landen swallowed and didn’t contradict. The man seemed in no doubt of where the sword was made.
Wearing Desantian weapons, he rode on to the city of Desan. The wide road leading to its gates had been fortified with pebbles; still it was muddy. Streams of boisterous bearded men, women with bright scarves on their heads, and laden animals passed through the gates into the city. Guards barely glanced at Landen’s unremarkable horse and clothes. They were occupied detaining a ragged band of minstrels ten paces ahead of him.
The exile entered the city and followed the flow of crowds, looking keenly about him. Narrow streets were lined with simple, well-made buildings of wood and stone. The bustling, rowdy people were friendly with each other, jostling good-naturedly. Landen kept to the main road, listening to the patterns of speech he heard.
‘Desante and Archeld must have the same mother,’ he muttered to himself, glad to find that the languages and accents weren’t far apart. The common people spoke with a rough, oddly clipped slur. But when he heard nobles talk, they sounded much like he did himself.
He stopped occasionally, to buy food from cart vendors. Desantian bread was fragrant and robust. By early afternoon, he reached the market square, which lead into several thoroughfares dense with public inns and taverns. He took a room for the night, and found the groom.
‘Going to see the fight?’ the man asked.
‘Indeed,’ Landen answered, certain that to ask ‘what fight’ would mark him a foreigner.
‘Best hurry then. The mare’s in good hands with me.’
The young man stepped into the street, guided by the direction of the busy crowd. Just ahead of him, a young boy hurried along by the side of an older man. Landen picked out their conversation.
‘Is Tamand going to win?’ the boy asked.
‘Aye, he may, for the soldier gets to wear leather armour, and the criminal none.’
‘They both get swords, don’t they?’
‘Aye. And if Tamand kills the criminal, he gets twenty rashoes in gold. You and me won’t see that much till we’ve worked twenty years with no quitting. You can see why the soldiers fight.’
‘Tamand is strong, ain’t he, Papa?’
‘So they say. The criminal h
e’s to fight is main burly too.’
‘What does the criminal get if he wins?’
‘He most never does, seeing he’s no armour, and he can’t win without killing. But if he kills, he gets full pardon and can hire for mercenary.’
‘Full pardon for killing a soldier?’ The boy’s wide-eyed question echoed Landen’s thoughts.
‘Ah, they won’t fight if they’ve nothing to gain. No one’s making the soldier do it. Just look at the crowd here. Each one paying their end wage to see. This way, the king can pay his troops, and they say there’s wars again soon.’
‘Jern told me there’s another rule, where neither one gets killed.’
‘Bah! No one’s used that in half a century. Aye, it’s there, but Tamand won’t do that. No point getting to where he could kill, then sparing the criminal’s life and walking away with nothing.’
‘Then why’s the rule there?’
‘They say in the old days, if the soldier felt honour for the man he fought, he’d let him off. Nah, don’t think about that, son. Won’t happen today.’
As the father and son quickened their pace, Landen walked in their wake, shaking his head with disgusted admiration. So, King Ardesen sponsored blood sports, a sort of entertainment tax on his citizens, to pay the troops that protected their borders! No doubt he ran a tight hold on such interests. Horrible ingenuity; a poor soldier could fight his way to riches by killing one of the kingdom’s criminals; a desperate prisoner purchase freedom by besting a soldier! And whoever died, Ardesen’s wealth would grow, for here were rushing swarms of Desantians: men, women and boys, eager to witness the coming fight, undaunted by the chill of autumn.
Did the king attend these gory spectacles? Did he hand out the prizes himself? And how many times a year were these battles enacted?
Though he had no heart to watch, Landen paid his fare and entered the huge stone amphitheatre, crowded with tiered benches. Below was a round walled courtyard, perhaps thirty paces in diameter. It was empty. Landen found a seat and waited as new throngs made their way in. The roar of humanity was loud. There was no sign of King Ardesen.