Destined for a King (18 page)

It took Calista a moment to process all her mother had just said. It took her a few more to formulate a halting reply. While she understood the Aranyan language, she rarely had reason to use it herself. “I will not leave you.”

“You will not leave your lover, you mean.”

“My husband.”

“He was your lover first. Otherwise you would not have wedded him.”

“You cannot tell me you wouldn't do the same.” After all, Mother had left her own people to settle at Blackbriar with Papa.

“I had no choice. You do until they start asking questions.”

“
You
had no choice?” Perhaps Calista hadn't grasped her mother's meaning. “That is not the way I've heard the story.”

“I was the daughter of a chieftain.” Amara's pride in her origins rang through her words. “He chose to offer me to a man I wanted nothing to do with. Not your father,” she added in reply to Calista's unvoiced question. “I rebelled by giving myself to a mercenary come to the southlands on a mission from Magnus. He'd sent your father to kill one of his detractors. I chose Belwin Thorne over the man my father wished me to marry, but that did not save us from banishment once we were discovered.”

Mercenary. Detractor. Banishment.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Calista knew she ought not understand these words. Mother had never had occasion to discuss this part with her in any language, but somehow the meaning became immediately clear.

“But Mother…Why have you done the same to me? You offered me to Magnus and I had no say in the matter. Now I've chosen otherwise. I would expect you to be more sympathetic to my cause.”
Sympathetic to my cause.
Where had that phrasing come from? She'd never possessed such a broad vocabulary.

“Your accent…Where have you acquired this sudden fluency in Aranyan?”

So her mind hadn't been playing tricks on her. Mother had noticed, too. “I…I do not know. The proper words just come into my head.” But she wasn't about to question the ability or allow her mother to deflect the topic of conversation. “Never mind that now. Just please answer my question.”

“I never knew Magnus was so abhorrent to you.” As if she was testing Calista's sudden ability, Mother's speech accelerated. “You never protested the arrangement.”

“I never knew I could.” In truth, she'd never known she wanted to until Torch rode into Blackbriar's bailey and took the keep. “And you have always told me I was destined for a king.”
Destined for a king.
She'd only ever heard her mother say that in the common tongue of the Strongholds. “Those are hardly words to make me believe I have a choice.”

“I still retain the pride of my people and my position.” With a gentle hand, Mother cupped Calista's cheek. “And in a way, I felt as if Magnus sent your father to me. I owe him loyalty for that, and if I could pay him back with the gift of my only daughter…”

“
You
suggested the match?”

“I suppose that makes me no better than my own father. Like me, you have chosen differently, but now you must think of your future and leave while you still can.”

“No. My place is here. Could you ever leave Father?”

Her mother's hand dropped to her side. “Has this man seduced you that sweetly?”

Heat crept up the back of Calista's neck. “It was sweet, and I don't wish it to be over. Do you not believe him now that he's stood before the altar and claimed it?”

“He believes in his claim. That is clear enough. It does not matter what I believe, so much as what your father and the other Stronghold lords do.”

“But you could influence Father if you wished.”

Calista glanced at the floor, where Mother's scroll lay forgotten among the rushes. She had to force herself to look away. Never in the past had she been able to read the Aranyan characters, but suddenly they resolved themselves into sense.

Kingsbane.

By the Three, what was happening to her? “I must rescue him if I can.”

The justiciar had called for Mother, which only meant one thing. Before long, they would come to question Calista.

“The ground pits of apricots, berries of the nightshade plant, leaves of the same, dragonwort, blackrose root.” She muttered the list of deadly ingredients under her breath like a novice loremaster reciting the tale of the years until they were committed to memory. By all that was perfect and precious, let her have enough time.

“The ground pits of apricots, berries of the nightshade plant, leaves of the same, dragonwort, blackrose root.” By the Three Gods, let her have the ingredients to hand in the stillroom.

“The ground pits of apricots.” Useful against rats, their sweetness would hide the bitter taste of the nightshade. Yes, and Mother kept that about as well. Along with the dragonwort, it was useful against diseases of the skin, if fatal when taken internally.

“Blackrose.” The only unfamiliar ingredient on the list, although a suspicion niggled at the back of her mind. She could hardly expect a scroll out of Aranya to term the plants Blackbriar roses, and her mother had smuggled the first seedlings on the long journey from that land, the root balls carefully wrapped and kept moist.

The aged parchment crackled beneath Calista's finger as once more she went over the list. She still wasn't sure she ought to rely on her sudden comprehension of its contents, but the ability might go away as quickly as it had appeared. And that same suspicion at the back of her mind prodded her onward. In a way, she felt as if she were wandering through a darkened passage where naught but a single light glimmered faintly ahead. She stumbled toward it, almost as if a voice encouraged her.

Here. This is your path. Follow it to the very end.

That voice seemed to wish her to destroy an entire army.

You must accomplish what Josse could not. Follow. Trust.

That was the problem. She had no idea where this voice had come from, and it was asking her to do something that ran contrary to all she'd learned at her mother's side. Her hands were meant for healing, but this path led her toward destruction.

Yet, these scrolls also belonged to her mother. And her mother had used them. Not only that, Calista had pushed the Kingsbane-tipped quarrels onto Torch, and he'd taken them. Not a moon's turn ago, she would have killed Torch herself to defend her home. Today, she'd been ready to fight once again.

Now that you possess the secret, you must do what is necessary.

And that sounded just a little too much like Torch himself telling her marriage to him would demand a lot of her on their wedding night. Not even a full day had passed since then. Or perhaps it had. She no longer knew, but the graininess like sand scratching at the back of her eyes told her she ought to have been abed long since.

A sound in the corridor sent her heart slamming into her throat. They were coming for her.

“The ground pits of apricots, berries of the nightshade plant, leaves of the same, dragonwort, blackrose root.” She muttered the list of ingredients one last time, even as she scrambled to hide the scrolls.

But she turned to find Tamsin on the threshold. Calista gasped at the girl's appearance. Her hair hung in straggles over her ravaged face, hiding any hint of her habitual good nature. A purplish bruise marred her cheek, and a trickle of blood oozed from a split lip.

“Good Mother, what's happened to you?” Calista cried as she hurried over, her mind already cataloging the remedies she'd need. Winterbloom to soothe the bruising, rose-scented unguent to calm the mind—as long as all Tamsin's hurts were visible.

Tamsin shrugged. “Mayhap the battle caught up to me.”

Calista ran her hand down the girl's arm. At least she didn't flinch away from the touch. “Who did this? Did one of the soldiers force himself on you?”

“It does not matter,” she muttered. “He did not finish the deed.”

“But he did you harm.”

“Not as much as he may have. This was only my punishment for shoving my knee in his cods.”

Damn them. How dare they? Calista pushed back against the hot wave of anger that threatened to overwhelm her. Magnus's men had no business treating Blackbriar servants as prizes of war. That was the sort of behavior Torch was purported to condone, and yet he'd left the keep's people unmolested. Torch himself hadn't even forced his will on Calista, in the end. But then, he hadn't needed to. No, there his easy seduction had sufficed.

Tamsin squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face away.

“What is it, then?” Calista asked gently.

“That silly boy. Owl.” Tamsin choked on the name. “He tried to save me. Got his brains bashed for his troubles, and I don't know what's become of him.”

“He's likely locked up with Torch's men.” Whatever light shone in Calista's mind brightened.
Yes. The dungeon.
“We'll get them out, but first we must find a means of putting the guards out of commission.”

The ground pits of apricots, berries of the nightshade plant, leaves of the same, dragonwort, blackrose root.
The words rang sure in her mind. She could close her eyes and see the glyphs written out on the scroll. One problem solved, but she would still have to use any and all possible means to convince the justiciar he could trust her in the stillroom.

A stranger sat in the lord's seat. Although Torch had never seen this man's face, he could hazard a guess as to the identity. Magnus's man. The king's justiciar.

In a hall teeming with Stronghold warleaders and cavaliers, all closer to Belwin Thorne's age—as was the Usurper himself, for that matter—the justiciar was younger than Torch expected. Perhaps the Ironfist valued him for the strength in his arms. Massive shoulders and biceps portended an easy swing of the headman's axe. At least the end would be swift.

But not an arrow.
Torch clung to that thin thread of hope, along with the thought that the justiciar could have ordered his death long since. If they were meeting in the hall—and before others—that indicated something else entirely. Could Magnus really be so magnanimous as to grant Torch a hearing? Or was this the justiciar's doing?

A pair of guards clad in mail overlain with the king's livery led Torch before the seat. The chains at his ankles clinked with every step.

“To what do I owe this honor?” Torch glanced about him. Other men stood along the wall behind the lord's seat—
his
seat, damn it. The symbols adorning their shields betrayed their identities—the other lords of the Eastern Strongholds, all accounted for except Belwin Thorne.

Naturally. Magnus's men must be holding him as well, though not in the dungeon. But if they were keeping him captive, that meant he hadn't broken his oath to Torch. A small enough victory tallied against this disaster.

“You might prefer to guard your tongue,” the justiciar replied, “especially when I am here to determine your fate.”

“
You're
to determine my fate? Does the king know you've placed yourself in such a position?”

A murmur passed through the assembled men. Lord Tarr and Lord Brinmar put their heads together. Yes, for a man in shackles, Torch was showing a great deal of swagger. Yet he could hope his display might win over some of the audience. If Magnus was going to grant him this stage to voice his claims aloud, he would milk the opportunity for everything he could. At the very least, he could sow a few seeds of doubt among Magnus's allies. After all, if the king at Highspring Moor held any semblance of power, it was by the grace of lords such as those who stood along the walls.

The justiciar allowed himself a grim smile. Damn, but that wasn't a good sign. “Magnus has given me that authority, yes.”

“Might I at least be granted the courtesy to learn whom I am addressing?”

“Since I am mandated to learn your true name, I shall give you mine.” He rose from his seat and folded himself into a mocking bow. “Starke Hammerfell, King's Justiciar.” And from all appearances, he would style himself the latest lord of Blackbriar. “And you are?”

It was Torch's turn to smile. He let his lips spread into a slow grin, one a less patient man would doubtless wish to scrub off with his fists. “I thought surely you knew me by reputation. I am called Torch by a great many in these lands.”

“But that is not the name you were born with.”

“Come, you've had ample time to hear of my wedding, held in this very hall, as it happens. Not two days ago.” At least Torch thought only two days had passed. In the permanent shadows of the dungeons, the slow tick of time took on a different aspect.

“We will come to that.”

“So you must know who my wife declared me to be. Where
is
my wife, by the way? It would ease my heart to learn she is being treated with honor and respect.” He voiced his concern casually enough, but the thought of Calista being turned over to these men made his fists clench with the desire to rip at his shackles, yank a sword from the nearest scabbard, and lay into the company. Thank the Three, he'd married her so that these men could not claim Calista had whored herself out to a bastard and treat her accordingly.

“Calista Thorne is under my protection. I daresay she's come to no harm—at least, not at my hands.”

“Who has harmed her?” Torch roared. His chains clinked as his arms twitched ineffectually against his shackles. “I'll see his heart on the tip of my sword for touching her.”

Laughter echoed through the hall at his empty threat. Damn it all, his bluster had swept away any last hope he'd maintained for taking control of this meeting.

Hammerfell suppressed a smile. “She would not say. Who might she be protecting, I wonder?”

At least Calista was still capable of speech, but his insides turned as cold as the winter winds shrieking about the Pinnacle. If Hammerfell saw fit to blame Calista's injuries on Torch, that boded ill for his sister. Pray the Three Kestrel got to her in time. “I would see her for myself.”

“I can allow that.” Hammerfell turned to a guard. “Call for Calista Thorne.”

Once again he'd referred to her as Thorne. Clearly, they were not going to recognize the marriage. And if Hammerfell had placed her under his protection, he must consider her still loyal to Magnus.

Hammerfell dismissed the guard with a wave of his hand before reaching behind him. “While we wait, you can tell me how you acquired this.” He produced a familiar-looking black scabbard. The runes tooled into the leather seemed to glow in the dim light of the hall. “Quite a noble weapon for someone of your origins.”

Death to the unworthy.
Torch repeated the motto in his mind. “How kind of you to notice. But then, aren't my origins the crux of the matter?”

“More than one retainer of this keep has told me the name you claim for your own.”

Torch let his gaze drift to the others along the walls. They were the ones he needed to convince.
They
must believe he was truly Josse. “And why should you question their honesty when they've no reason to show me loyalty by lying? But if you insist, I can produce yet another witness. One who has every reason to resent me, since he is down in the dungeon on my command.”

Hammerfell ran one beefy hand idly along the scabbard, his fingers bouncing over the runes. “I need no more witnesses to your claim. What I require is proof of the claim itself.”

Torch pointed his chin at the blade. “There are those who would see that sword as ample proof.” His mother's words to him on that long-ago night echoed through his brain.
He who draws it lives or dies by the king's will.
Once Torch had reached an age to understand, he interpreted them to mean the wrong man would bring about his own death simply by drawing the weapon. “Go on. Draw the weapon, if you dare.”

Hammerfell, damn him three times over, did not rise to the bait. Single-minded in his quest for the truth, he was. Or at least he was single-minded in his quest for a palatable story he could feed the Usurper. “I asked where you got this.”

“From my own mother's hand. She girded it on me herself when I was of an age to draw blade. But what you really want to know is how she came by it.” He paused for effect. He must command the attention of every last one of the Stronghold Lords. “She took it from the armory at Highspring Moor the night she secreted me from the palace.”

“That is impossible.”

Torch simply raised a brow and waited for Hammerfell to explain himself.

“Magnus Vandal holds the king's true sword, taken from the young pretender the night he reclaimed his rightful position. This is no more the true weapon than you can be the true son of the pretender.”

“Tell that to my mother and see what she thinks of your prattle,” Torch snapped. “Better yet, draw the blade and prove me a liar. If you believe me an imposter, you have naught to lose, have you?” Nothing but his life, the moment he loosed the weapon and its true fire sprung to life to strike the man down like a bolt of lightning.

Torch held his adversary's gaze in an unblinking stare while the silence deepened. A slow, steady beat resounded in his ears to the rhythm of his final pronouncement:
naught to lose, naught to lose, naught to lose.
Was it his heartbeat or those of the other occupants of this hall? Perhaps they were all pounding as one, waiting on Hammerfell's next move.

The king's justiciar wrapped his fingers about the hilt, his palm covering the eagle's head on the pommel.

He who draws it lives or dies by the king's will.
Thus Torch bent his will, and his entire being strained into a single thought.
Prove his unworthiness and prove my identity.

The blade shuddered in its scabbard as Hammerfell loosened it.
Not worthy.
A metallic knell tolled along its length.
Not worthy.
Unsmiling, he drew it forth until he held the weapon raised in his hand.
Not worthy.