C H A P T E R E LE V E N
ilence settled over the hall like dust motes.S ‘Bar the doors,’ someone shouted. ‘The assassin may still be in our midst!’ Several guards and attendants spurred into action, with the royal guards of each kingdom surrounding their monarchs protectively.
But Thea remained rooted to the spot, her eyes falling to King Artos, whose mouth was slack as he gazed upon his dead cupbearer.
After what felt like a lifetime, he looked to his men restraining her. ‘Release her,’ he ordered, his voice raw.
As soon as their hold loosened, Thea jerked out of their grip, rubbing her bruised arms with a
wince. ‘How did you know?’ King Artos asked. ‘You said the wine smelt of lilac, Your Grace. And then I smelt something similar to ash… The combination of aromas put me on edge, for there is a particular mixture that can have adverse effects.
Then I saw the blue powder near your decanter… I have seen it before, Sire.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Crushed Naarvian Nightshade, Majesty. With the added deadly blend of lilac and Widow’s Ash.’ ‘And how do you know of such a poison?’ Thea swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Alchemy is a vast and varied arena, Sire.’ Thea left out the fact that it was poisons that had always interested her the most when it came to the bubbling potions and strange herbs of the workshop.
The king nodded, clearly still unnerved.
The hall was tense, guards blocking every entrance and stationed all along the tables, while Hawthorne watched on from his position on the far wall, his expression unreadable.
Thea’s mind whirred and she dared to take a step – two steps, towards King Artos, scanning the mess the cupbearer had caused when he fell.
A guard made to stop her, but the king raised his hand and Thea understood the opportunity she was being given.
Now, she stalked freely down the length of the table, studying not the array of food and drink, but the guests themselves. Some stared back at her, oblivious of her intentions, others looked defiant, offended, and some twitched in their seats, not guilty of poisoning, but other misdeeds at the forefront of their minds.
Thea slowed towards the end of the table, revelling in the power she felt. ‘One thing I learned about Naarvian Nightshade, Your Majesty,’ she said. ‘Is that it stains…’ ‘Oh?’ She stopped before an immaculately dressed man, his hair slicked back with oil, his tunic embellished with gold thread. And at the tips of his fingers, were the faintest hints of blue.
‘Him,’ she stated.
Several people gasped aloud.
The noble in question paled but forced a laugh. ‘These are but ink stains, girl.’ ‘I find it unusual that a man of your status, status high enough to be seated on the king’s own table, would carry out his own correspondence. A man of your position would have a scribe, surely?’ Quiet followed. ‘And surely were they ink stains, you’d have scrubbed your hands before dining with the king?’ Thea pressed.
The man leapt out of his seat, his chair falling back with a crash. He surged from the table, ducking through the guards’ attempts to grab him, darting for an exit Thea couldn’t see.
She threw herself after him, determined not to let a royal assassin escape in her presence.
Something whistled through the air – a spear, which hurtled towards the culprit, lancing through his cloak and pinning him to the step of the dais.
The guards leapt upon him, all the while, the spear still wobbled with the force with which it had been thrown. Thea sought its point of origin, suspicion already curdling in her gut. Wilder Hawthorne leaned against a pillar as though he had barely lifted a finger. The awed expressions of the nobles around him and the precision of the throw confirmed Thea’s hunch.
Hawthorne had apprehended the king’s poisoner.
It took five men to dislodge the spear.
The noble protested, shouting curses in Thea’s direction and straining against the guards’ grasp.
But when his eyes landed on the king at last, he fell silent.
Thea pointed to his hands. ‘See the blue stains there, Sire? Beneath his fingernails? Those are from the Naarvian Nightshade. It was this man who tried to take your life, who claimed the life of your cupbearer.’ The king looked from the colour marking the man’s skin, to his wide-eyed expression. ‘Well,
Aemund… You have a choice.’ ‘Your Majesty, please —’ ‘You can choose death,’ King Artos continued. ‘Or, you can choose the Scarlet Tower.’ Thea’s stomach roiled. She had heard only rumours of the Scarlet Tower, the prison close to the Veil, south of what used to be the kingdom of Naarva. Those rumours had been enough to make her blood run cold. The worst of humanity was sent there; those who had committed unforgivable crimes, those who deserved worse than execution, and those who had conspired against the rightful rulers.
All forced onto a pitiful boat that sailed past the Broken Isles, past Naarva, to a tiny spit of land home to the worst place in all the midrealms. ‘Your Majesty, no, I —’ The king stared him down. ‘Death or the Scarlet Tower. Choose.’ Thea had seen a drawing of it once; a single column of stone on an uninhabitable island. ‘Death,’ the man called Aemund choked out. ‘I choose death.’ King Artos studied him for a moment, his gaze lingering on the patches of blue at the man’s fingertips. Then, he turned to his guards. ‘Take him to the dungeons. Interrogate him. We need to know
who he is working with. Then, he goes to the Scarlet Tower.’ ‘No!’ shrieked the man. ‘Your Majesty, I beg you —’ ‘The time for begging has long passed, Aemund.’ And with that final dismissal, the guards dragged him away.
It was then that King Artos’ eyes fell to Thea once more. ‘I owe you a great debt,’ he said.
Thea’s hands tingled at her sides and a jolt shot through her veins. ‘It was an honour to serve, Majesty.’ But the king shook his head, dissatisfied. ‘Usually I would bestow lands and knighthood for such a deed…’ he told her, his voice increasing in volume as he walked around the table to face her. ‘But I know to such a woman that riches would mean little.’ ‘I need no repayment, Sire,’ Thea insisted, bowing. ‘I am only sorry for the alarm my actions caused.’ King Artos considered her, glancing at the other rulers and back to her. ‘I wish to re-address your
earlier request, Althea Zoltaire.’ Thea froze. What? ‘It appears I was too hasty in my decision.’ He turned to the other kings and queen. ‘Althea wished to be admitted to Thezmarr as a shieldbearer,’ he said. ‘With your blessings, I now hope to grant that request.’ For the first time since Thea had thrown the dagger, chatter broke out around the hall. Hundreds of hushed voices filled the room, vibrating across Thea’s skin, their stares boring into her back. But Thea didn’t move, didn’t dare to hope. ‘It is not your decision alone,’ King Leiko stated, standing, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘You are quite right,’ King Artos allowed. ‘Which is why I turn to you, my fellow rulers. This young woman has the support of the Guild Master and now me, the King of Harenth in her petition to join the Thezmarrian ranks. What say you?’ King Leiko cleared his throat. ‘What of all you said before? About the stability of Thezmarr and all it stands for?’ ‘Our law from two decades ago forbade women to wield blades, but were it not for a woman wielding a blade today, my life would be forfeit,’ King Artos projected his voice to the far reaches of the hall. ‘Were it not for this woman, the kingdom of Harenth would be kingless, my conspirators on the rise to power and this great territory might have descended into chaos and war. It’s my belief that we have found an exception to the laws forged in the past. The courage and skill Althea demonstrated just now in saving my life surely proves that?’ ‘I do not deny the girl’s bravery —’ The girl. The girl. The words bounced around in Thea’s mind like a persistent headache, but she remained quiet. ‘However,’ King Leiko continued. ‘You cannot vouch for her alone. It would mean you have a vested interest in Thezmarr, and Thezmarr was and always will be, an independent territory from the kingdoms of the midrealms.’ Thea watched on, as yet again she was talked about and not to. As yet again, men decided her future. As she fiddled with her sleeve, she remembered the Warsword whose shirt she wore… He was where he had been the whole time, stationed by the exit at the far end of the room, his hand on the hilt of her dagger, watching on without a hint of emotion on his harsh face. ‘You do not think it reasonable for me to reward the woman who saved my life?’ Artos argued.
‘Not if it interferes with Thezmarr,’ King Leiko bit back.
It was Queen Reyna of Aveum who spoke next, gracefully rising from her chair and turning to address both rulers. ‘I vote with King Artos. The young woman has proven her worth. She would make a fine addition to the guild’s recruits.’ Thea’s chest was about to burst. She hardly dared to look from one ruler to the next, so sure that she had misheard the words she had spoken, that this was all some elaborate figment of her desperate imagination. ‘As do I,’ Queen Reyna’s husband, the quiet King Elkan voiced from her side.
King Leiko of Tver’s gaze fell to her. The pause seemed to last forever before he spoke again. ‘So be it.’ King Artos beamed as he turned to Thea. ‘Congratulations, Althea Zoltaire,’ he said. ‘You’ve just become the newest shieldbearer of Thezmarr.’ Thea’s legs buckled so badly she had to steady herself on the back of a chair. ‘You have all the rights a shieldbearer has. You may train, bear arms and partake in the initiation test to become a Guardian of the midrealms upon the next season.’ Slowly, he began to clap and soon, the entire great hall was on its feet, applauding her. At the king’s signal, fresh wine was brought in, as were new cupbearers for the royals. Upon confirmation that the liquor was indeed safe to drink, King Artos raised his goblet to Thea, who found a cup
pressed into her own hand. ‘To Althea Zoltaire,’ the king toasted.
Althea could not contain the grin that split across her face. Never in her twenty-four years had she ever imagined hearing her name being echoed back to her in salute through royal halls. Warmth radiated through her body, along with the hum of her racing heart. She wished Wren and the others were here to see this.
Althea Nine Lives, she laughed silently, raising her own goblet to her lips.
No sooner had the delicious wine hit her tongue, a heavy hand grasped her shoulder, gentle but firm, its heat penetrating the thin fabric of her shirt. ‘Well, shieldbearer,’ that familiar deep voice rumbled in the shell of her ear. ‘We need to get back to the fortress.’ ‘Now?’ Thea turned to face the Warsword. ‘I thought you said we were staying in Hailford for the
night?’ ‘That was before.’ ‘Before I became a shieldbearer of Thezmarr?’ Thea grinned.
A muscle twitched in Hawthorne’s jaw. ‘Wilder,’ King Artos greeted the Warsword. ‘Please, join us!’ But to Thea’s disbelief, Hawthorne was already shaking his head. ‘My thanks, Sire. But duty calls us back to Thezmarr.’ If the king was surprised, he did not show it. Instead, he raised his goblet again, this time to Hawthorne. ‘We are honoured to host you, even so briefly, Warsword. And I thank you for your role
in my assassin’s capture.’ Hawthorne bowed and made for the doors. ‘Thank you, Your Majesties,’ Thea blurted, bowing low before chasing after the warrior.
When they were out in the foyer, Thea turned to Hawthorne. ‘I thought you said “if the king invites you to sit at his table, you sit at his table”?’ Hawthorne kept walking. ‘That’s true enough, for you. I, however, answer to no king.’
The sheer arrogance in that statement heated Thea’s blood in more ways than one. But she unclenched her fists at her sides, vowing that one day, she would be able to say the same.
And just for a second, she pictured herself wielding her own twin blades of Naarvian steel.
The royal stables were immaculate and ten times the size of Thezmarr’s. The building was alive with stableboys tending to the horses and servants polishing tack. It smelt of sweet hay, manure and leather. ‘You have ten minutes,’ Hawthorne told her. ‘Be ready.’
‘We’re to ride through the night?’ ‘Does the dark scare you, Alchemist?’ Thea’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m a shieldbearer now. And no. Nothing scares me.’ ‘Then you’re even more of a fool than I thought.’ ‘I’m no fool.’ ‘No?’ Hawthorne rounded on her. ‘I have never seen such reckless behaviour in all my life. Do you have any semblance of a brain in that thick skull of yours?’ ‘I —’ ‘That was a rhetorical question,’ he snapped, his mask of stone slipping. ‘You threw a knife at the King of Harenth. What would you have done if you’d been mistaken about the poison?’ ‘But I wasn’t.’ ‘You didn’t know that. I saw your face.’
‘I saved the king’s life tonight!’ ‘You risked your own on a whim.’ ‘I saved a ruler of the midrealms. Isn’t that your job?’ she yelled. ‘I protected one of the last remaining magic wielders to exist. Didn’t you feel how strong he is? Imagine if it was gone? Another royal wiped from this realm, their magic with him?’ Hawthorne baulked. ‘You felt it?’ Fury blinded Thea. ‘Of course I felt it. I know I’m just an alchemist to you, but I’m not a moron.
Their magic came alive in that throne room! And as for my own life, why do you care?’ Hawthorne hesitated a moment before he started on her again. ‘By the gods, I don’t,’ his deep voice grew louder, the flickering torchlight making his eyes molten silver. ‘There is nothing I want more than to be rid of you. You’re a danger to yourself and to others.’ That familiar current of anger surged in Thea’s veins. ‘So why are you here?’ ‘Orders,’ he ground out. ‘You know that. You were placed under my protection. I didn’t ask for it.
I certainly didn’t want this, but I am responsible for you. I hope to never be so again.’ ‘On that, we agree,’ Thea retorted. ‘At last, some common ground.’ Fury laced every word, and the Warsword shook his head as he walked into the stables.
But Thea wasn’t done. She charged after him. ‘I presume you heard King Artos give me express permission to train and to bear arms. I want my dagger back.’ ‘Gods, you must have a death wish,’ Hawthorne muttered in disbelief. ‘It’s mine,’ Thea argued. ‘I want it back.’ ‘I want a hot bath and a naked beauty to feed me grapes,’ he snapped. ‘Alas, we don’t always get
what we want.’ Thea didn’t think, she swung her fist.
Only to have it swallowed by his hand. In a blur of movement, faster than she could process, the
Warsword spun her around, trapping both her hands behind her and shoving her to the wall. The stone was cold against her face, against her heaving breasts beneath the thin shirt.
Hawthorne didn’t release her. The pressure behind her increased as he pushed her harder into the wall, his chest now flush with her back, his voice hot in her ear. ‘You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that to hit me,’ he growled.
Thea couldn’t budge an inch, couldn’t so much as squirm. His strength was that formidable. He had moved her like she weighed little more than a feather, and held her in place as though he could do so with a single finger.
Resentment rolled off her in waves as at last he let her go and disappeared to tend to his stallion.
After years of training in secret, of spying on ungrateful recruits, of harbouring a weapon against the rules and dreaming of the moment when she could wield it, she finally had what she had always wanted. And now the moody bastard was robbing her of her victory. ‘Five minutes,’ he called out sharply from one of the stalls.
Grinding her teeth, Thea found her mare and saddled her in a hurry. She had no doubt that if she wasn’t ready in time, the surly warrior would gladly leave her behind, despite any supposed notion of responsibility.
The moon was high in the inky night when they departed the royal stables. Thea could still hear the festivities carrying on within the castle, but an icy shiver washed over her as they passed through the gates. Tonight, her actions had seen an innocent cupbearer die, and another man condemned to the Scarlet Tower. And she’d thought nothing of it until the rhythmic steps of her horse had lulled her into a state of reflection. Right now, she could be riding over the dungeons where that same man was in chains, awaiting a fate worse than death.
The cupbearer would have died anyway if he’d done his job in the first place, she told herself.
As for the other… Well, he’d committed treason of the highest order. He deserved what he got. And yet still the sour taste lingered in her mouth.
Despite the angry words they'd exchanged, Thea twisted in her saddle and addressed the Warsword. ‘What do you know of the Scarlet Tower?’ Hawthorne kept his eyes straight ahead. ‘Enough.’ ‘Which is?’ ‘Enough to know that I, too, would have chosen death.’ He silenced her with a fierce look and Thea tensed. Long gone was the glimpse of the man who’d given her his own shirt. The warrior who rode beside her was harsh, unforgiving and brutal in his manner. Once again she wondered what he had seen, and what he had done, in his years of service.
It surprised her to hear him speak again so soon. ‘The first lesson of being a warrior of Thezmarr,’ he told her, ‘is this: know that your actions have consequences. Some more than others. And you will carry those with you for the rest of your life. Do you understand me?’ The arrow stinging her cheek flashed in Thea’s mind. As did the sight of Hawthorne twirling her dagger between his fingers in the Bloodwoods. Then, it was Audra arguing her case to the Guild Master and her sister’s initial fear upon discovering her intentions to petition the king. Then, a pair of trembling hands and the blue-lipped cupbearer, and finally, the treasonous noble… She found herself wrenched into the present, where she now rode alongside a Warsword, on her way to live and train as a shieldbearer. Her actions had set in motion every single one of those events. ‘I understand,’ she replied softly, hardly daring to wonder where they would take her next.
They rode in silence as they navigated the steep, cobblestoned descent from the palace and into
the city proper. By night, the streets of Hailford were brimming with debauchery and Thea found herself curious as to what she might find in some of the raucous taverns and silk-draped pleasure houses. But they left the laughter and flickering candlelight behind and soon, the darkness beyond the capital swallowed them whole.
Thea didn’t know how long they’d been riding for, only that the moon was still high and the stars that littered the velvet night were infinite. Her stomach gurgled in hunger. She’d scarcely managed two mouthfuls at the feast before the chaos had broken out. And before that…? She had no idea. Her vision swam for a moment and she righted herself in the saddle, her movements sluggish, muscles weak.
It had been a long few days – emotional, too – so it was no wonder she was a little out of sorts, she told herself. Despite the pangs of hunger in her gut, she decided none of it mattered. However it had come to pass, she’d achieved her goal at Harenth. She was returning to Thezmarr not as a poor excuse for an alchemist, but as a shieldbearer of the guild.
Althea Nine Lives was one step closer to becoming a legend.
It was this she thought of as her head dropped to her chest and she slipped from her saddle.
