C H A P T E R N I N E
hea paused at the crest on the land. There was nowhere to hide and so she simply sat on the dampT grass and watched him in full view.
The Warsword had shucked off his outer layers and wore a sweat-drenched undershirt as he trained, powerful muscles bunching beneath the wet fabric. The black ink on his right hand trailed up his forearm and bicep, disappearing under his shirt.
He slashed his two mighty swords through the air in a blur of steel, cutting down imaginary opponents.
Thea had seen no one move like he did. Each strike, each parry, each feint was a step in a deadly dance, each movement blended with lethal grace, discipline and strength beyond her comprehension.
Not even Esyllt, the weapons master, can fight like that. Again, Thea wondered who had schooled the warrior in the art of combat, for it was an art when he did it. As arrogant as he was, there was no denying Hawthorne’s predatory prowess, his unparalleled skill. Someone more than a weapons master had honed those abilities – and the Furies themselves had gifted him power upon completion of the Great Rite.
Clouds formed before Thea’s face as she exhaled, wondering what it would be like to see Hawthorne in the heart of a proper battle. She could almost picture it: the warrior clad in his black armour, blood spattered across his handsome face as he carved through enemy after enemy — ‘Do you think it wise, spying on a Warsword, Alchemist?’ He didn’t break his focus from his sparring. ‘Here I was thinking we’d started getting along,’ she said, unable to suppress her grin as a fresh blush tipped his cheeks. ‘Besides, it’s not spying if I’m in plain sight. Why don’t you teach me some of your drills?’ ‘No.’ It came out as a growl. ‘Haven’t I made myself clear?’ ‘Haven’t I?’ Thea countered. ‘I want to learn, and who better to learn from than you?’
‘I wasn’t offering.’
‘What do you have to lose?’ ‘You mean besides my time?’ ‘Didn’t seem like you minded spending time with me this morning.’ He glowered. ‘Not another word.’ But his irritation only fuelled Thea’s amusement. ‘Come now, we’ve shared so much already,’ she teased. ‘Why not share a few of your tricks? After all, Warswords used to have apprentices —’
‘Used to,’ he snapped. ‘A tradition that has thankfully been dropped.’ She could feel the tension rolling off him in waves as he went through another set of movements.
She tried to commit each twirl of the blade to memory, wishing she’d brought parchment and a pen to take notes. This was like no other training session she’d witnessed. There was a fluidity to every strike, every shift from foot to foot. He was a master in every respect of the word. ‘Vernich would have killed you by now.’ Hawthorne dropped into a powerful lunge, following through with a well-placed thrust of his second blade.
Thea found the words did not surprise her. Vernich the Bloodletter… The name said it all.
‘You’re not Vernich.’ ‘Good of you to notice.’ ‘What about the other, Torj the Bear Slayer? Would he tolerate me?’ ‘Only if he wanted to bed you.’ ‘Surely that’s frowned upon? Aren’t there rules?’ Hawthorne made a noise at the back of his throat. ‘That’s rich, coming from you.’ ‘Well, he’s a Warsword though.’ ‘Perhaps alchemists aren’t the only ones with a penchant for rule breaking.’ Hawthorne worked his way through a final round of sparring, his momentum increasing with every spin, every block. ‘What are they like? The others?’ Thea pressed.
At last, the Warsword came to a stop and mopped his brow on a scrap of fabric. ‘I just told you,’ he said, sheathing his blades in their scabbards. The warrior passed her on the ridge and made for a
nearby stream.
Without thinking, Thea made to follow.
Hawthorne stopped in his tracks and turned to her with a piercing gaze. ‘Do you mean to watch me bathe as well?’ Thea’s cheeks heated, but she lifted her chin, recalling the press of his hard length against her backside. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.’ The corner of his mouth moved, betraying the hint of a dimple. ‘I doubt that, Alchemist. I doubt that very much.’
By mid-afternoon, the capital city, Hailford, and the grand palace, the Heart of Harenth, were on the horizon. Even from afar, it was an incredible sight, as though the unnatural darkness at the edge of the midrealms didn’t dare touch its shimmering soul. The palace sat atop a great hill at the centre, the city sprawling beneath it, its buildings in neat layered rows, like adoring admirers before a stage, surrounded by thick stone walls.
Before Thea knew it, they were at the towering iron gates tipped with spikes, though the imposing structure had been draped in banners and flowers in honour of the royal guests from the neighbouring kingdoms.
Hawthorne slowed his stallion upon approach and addressed one of the armed guards. ‘The celebrations are well underway, then?’ The guard bowed his head in respect before he answered. ‘Yes, Sir. The rulers from Tver and Aveum arrived two days ago. The main feast will begin by sundown.’ Hawthorne nodded. ‘We’re just in time. Thank you.’ Lowering his head once more, the guard pressed three fingers to his left shoulder, the utmost sign
of reverence to a Warsword. His companion on the other side of the gateway did the same. ‘Always an honour to host one of your kind in our city, Sir. Welcome to Hailford.’ Hawthorne nodded in thanks and urged his horse through the open gate, Thea close behind, her eyes widening at what lay beyond the walls.
The gates opened up to a paved square, an elaborate fountain at the centre with a mountain drake atop a jagged peak, streams of water shooting from the spikes on its back, the detailing so fine that Thea could see its individual scales. But there was no chance to study it, as Hawthorne urged them into a trot down the main thoroughfare.
Thea didn’t know where to look first. Shops opened up onto the street, some selling wares from small stalls right on the cobblestones, goods spilling out from baskets, merchants calling out to those tempted to browse. More flowers and banners draped across the streets, petals lining the gutters.
Celebration was thick in the air, people were drunk and cheerful, and the whole of Harenth pulsed with life and joyful abandon. Thea drank it all in, wishing she could leap from her horse and take part in the festivities.
A particularly colourful stall caught Thea’s eye, and she longed for Wren to see the array of spices on display in little stone bowls and the range of herbs hanging from a thin rope across the width of the table. Sure enough, behind the stall was a fully stocked apothecary, likely where Farissa and the fortress cook got their supplies from, for potions and stews alike. ‘Keep up,’ Hawthorne called back to her.
Thea reluctantly squeezed her mare’s sides, increasing her pace.
At the sight of the mighty black stallion and its rider, the crowded streets parted before them, some people making the three-fingered salute to the Warsword in their midst.
The street curled around the base of the hill and inclined, the celebrations and opulence growing with each step closer to the palace. The clothing of the onlookers became more colourful and lavish; instead of plain wool dresses and jackets, silk gowns trailed the cobblestones and velvet tunics with family crests and emblems emblazoned on the front lined the streets.
Thea and Hawthorne passed more shops, taverns and vibrant stalls, and eventually, the sight of the swinging wooden sign with crossed axes etched into it yanked Thea from her state of wonder. It was the great forge of Harenth, where she knew the Thezmarrian warrior weapons were made. It was a good opening to ask about the forging of the Naarvian blades and where that took place, but she wouldn’t risk another verbal sparring match so close to the palace.
Thea’s chest grew tight and nerves squirmed in her gut. She became increasingly aware of her worn and dirty travelling clothes amidst all the finery. The fresh shirt she’d changed into earlier that morning was dusty and smelt of horse. She knew that she would be afforded no opportunity to clean up before she was presented to the king, and the injustice of that fact nagged at her mind.
Towards the palace, the shops became more and more specialised: a gallery, a fine jeweller, a silk merchant and — A plump man in a red velvet tunic waved so enthusiastically at Hawthorne, Thea thought his arm might pop out of its socket. He stood amidst a collection of massive oak barrels outside what appeared to be a wine shop. ‘Hawthorne, my old friend!’ he called, still waving, a wide grin splitting his face. ‘Like you have any friends,’ she muttered.
But to Thea’s surprise, the Warsword slowed and when he turned to the man, she was even more shocked to find a genuine smile on his lips. It made him look younger. ‘Hello Marise.’
‘You must stop by today,’ Marise gushed. ‘I’ve received several new vintages. There is one I know you will love especially!’ It was all Thea could do not to stare with her mouth agape. Hawthorne likes fancy aged liquor…? The Warsword and the wine merchant… It was an odd friendship pairing, to be sure. Also, it proved that Hawthorne was capable of manners and camaraderie, just not with her.
Brash bastard, Thea thought. ‘Perhaps another time,’ Hawthorne replied. ‘I have business at the palace.’
‘Business is thirsty work…’ ‘You’re not wrong.’ Marise craned his neck, seeming to notice Thea at last. He made no effort to hide his blatant curiosity. ‘And who is this intense creature? A new friend of yours?’ he asked.
Hawthorne actually laughed. ‘No.’ But Marise paid his rudeness no heed and waved to Thea. ‘You must be the business, then.
Pleasure to meet you, good lady.’ Thea nearly fell off her saddle. Never in her life had she been called a lady. But then, he was a wine merchant, wasn’t he? He was likely drunk. He had also called her an intense creature…
whatever that meant. ‘You too, sir,’ she managed. ‘Sir?’ He tipped his head back and chuckled deeply. ‘You must call me Marise, like your friend
here.’ He gestured to Hawthorne.
Both Thea and Hawthorne ignored this.
Baffled by the man’s enthusiasm, Thea nodded. ‘I’m Thea.’ Marise beamed. ‘You must come by for a tasting, my dear Thea!’ ‘I…’ People had paused in the street to watch the exchange and she felt their stares boring into her.
Marise seemed to notice the unwanted attention and, with sudden seriousness, approached the Warsword’s stallion. In a hurried whisper, he said: ‘There is to be a dead red event soon. I shall send further details to the fortress.’ Thea blinked. Dead red event? That sounds ominous.
The Warsword bowed his head. ‘Much obliged.’ They rode on, Thea’s nerves well and truly kicking in as they moved through the residence quarter of Hailford, each townhouse more stately than the previous. It appeared that proximity to wealth created wealth.
At long last, the palace walls loomed before them and they came to a halt at the golden gates. ‘You are most welcome, Warsword,’ one guard said, making the three-fingered gesture to his left shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ Hawthorne replied, dismounting but still towering over the guards. ‘My charge wishes to attend the open court. We have a letter from the Guild Master of Thezmarr.’ Hawthorne produced a piece of folded parchment and handed it over.
The man scanned its contents, surveying Thea with an air of disbelief. Nevertheless, he gave the letter back to Hawthorne, addressing him, not Thea. ‘The open court is taking place now. I believe it’s nearly at an end.’ ‘At an end?’ Thea started, jumping down from her mare. ‘Now? I thought we had until —’ ‘The royals and nobles are eager to start the feast and festivities,’ the guard told her. ‘If you wish
this matter to be heard by the rulers, you must go now. Even then, you may be too late.’ Blood roared in Thea’s ears, panic seizing her limbs. ‘But —’ Hawthorne faced her, nodding towards the grand palace entrance and pushing the Guild Master’s letter into her hands. ‘I suggest you hurry.’
‘You’re not coming?’
‘I have other matters to attend to.’ Thea gaped at him. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he prompted.
With her heart hammering and despair lurching in her gut, Thea turned on her heel, bracing to race for the stairs. ‘Don’t run,’ Hawthorne added casually. ‘They’ll put an arrow through your throat.’ Cursing the Warsword, Thea walked as quickly as she could towards the entrance, taking two steps at a time. No one stopped her, no one shot an arrow through her throat. The palace was the most glorious place she had ever seen, but she couldn't stop to admire its opulent details. Instead, she asked the nearest guard where the court was being held and darted off, repeating his directions in her head.
Thea forgot about her dirty, dishevelled state. She forgot about the surly Warsword. She thought of only one thing: becoming a shieldbearer, and then, a legend of Thezmarr. This was the moment she had dreamed of her whole life. This was the opportunity that would make all her training, all her spying, and the many other risks she’d taken worth it.
When she reached the ornate pair of gold filigree doors, a herald greeted her. ‘I’m afraid court is just finishing,’ he said, eyeing her travel worn clothes with distaste.
Still clutching the now crumpled Guild Master’s letter, Thea’s heart plummeted to her stomach. ‘Please, I’ve come a long way.’ The herald studied her for a moment longer, before spotting the Guild Master’s wax seal on the parchment in her hands. ‘One moment,’ he said eventually, before ducking inside the room beyond.
Thea’s heart was about to burst, and there was a real possibility that she might throw up all over the pristine marble floor.
A minute later, the herald reappeared. ‘You were just in time,’ he said. His earlier expression of distaste was gone, in its place was one of pity. ‘They’ll see you now.’ There was no time for shock, no time for panic. Thea straightened and brushed off her clothes as best she could before nodding to the herald.
He opened the doors.
The sight within took Thea’s breath away.
The throne room.
Arched vaulted ceilings soared above her, punctuated with crystal chandeliers that sent light dancing around the room and the crowd of nobles that filled it. All eyes went to Thea, but she kept her gaze ahead. The marble floor continued beneath her muddy boots leading to the apex of the chamber, where three gilded thrones sat on a wide, carpeted dais, a ruler seated in each.
Thea had never felt so exposed in all her life. But if this was the path she had to walk, then she would walk it with her head held high. Reaching the foot of the dais, she stopped before the royals and bowed low.
The hair on the back of her neck stood up as something strange reached out to her, wrapping around her senses, toying with the warring feelings in her chest.
Magic, she realised. She was in the presence of magic, and not the forged power of a Warsword,
but magic born of the rulers of the midrealms – royal magic.
Here it was, almost visible as a spectrum of colours before her. ‘Rise,’ said a warm, rich voice.
Thea straightened, her eyes locking with those of King Artos Fairmoore, the ruler of Harenth.
Though she had never seen the king in the flesh before, she knew it was him from the tales of his bright green eyes and handsome face. To his right was a man with a rearing stallion embroidered on his doublet, marking him as King Leiko Stallard of Tver. On the other side was a beautiful woman who could only have been Queen Reyna Dufort of Aveum, a crown of frosted jewels atop her head.
An attractive man with a matching crown stood behind her, resting his hand on her shoulder; King Elkan, then.
Thea couldn’t help but stare at the power gathered before her.
From her basic lessons, Thea knew that the Fairmoore family, King Artos’ line, was known for mind magic. Over the generations, they had produced mind whisperers, dream wielders and empaths; King Artos was the latter. The Stallard royals had been fire wielders for centuries, though it was rumoured that King Leiko possessed but a drop of his ancestors’ power, while the Dufort royals of Aveum were known for their seers of varying strengths — ‘Tell us, child of Thezmarr,’ King Artos said, bringing Thea out of her reverie with a start. ‘What brings you to our halls today?’ A wave of whispers washed over the crowd at Thea’s back.
A lump had formed in her throat and she struggled to swallow it, perhaps her thundering heart had lodged itself there. Thea bowed again, buying herself another moment. ‘Your Majesties,’ she said at last, her words croaky. ‘I seek a concession to the no-women-in-arms law.’ This time, the noise that burst from the crowd was not hushed behind fans and silk gloves. It was outright shock, not to be contained with low voices and subtle glances.
King Artos raised a finger on the arm of his throne and the nobles fell silent at once.
Thea met his green-eyed gaze. ‘I have a message from the Guild Master outlining the matter at hand, Your Grace.’ The King of Harenth nodded to a servant, who came forward and took the parchment from Thea, passing it to the king with a low bow.
Thea clasped her hands in front of her to hide the trembling and she watched as the king scanned Osiris’ message, his brow furrowed, before handing it to Queen Reyna. ‘Your Majesties, all my life I have wanted one thing: to wield a blade in the defence of the midrealms and its people,’ Thea began. ‘I was born to fight, to be trained by the best in our mighty guild, to join the warriors of Thezmarr and keep the looming darkness at bay. I come here today to ask you for that chance, for the opportunity to protect your kingdoms.’ Queen Reyna peered over the parchment. ‘You wish to train as a shieldbearer? To take the initiation test in the next season and become a Guardian of the midrealms, is that correct?’ Magic crackled through the throne room, but there was no telling to whom it belonged or what form it might take. The rest of the court seemed unfazed, but then again, they must be used to its casual display.
Thea bowed her head. ‘That is correct, Your Majesty. It would be a great honour to be a protector of the realm.’ The rulers of the three kingdoms exchanged looks and unspoken words. Her fate was in their hands. It was their ruling that would determine how she would spend the final years of her life… As a poor excuse for an alchemist, or as a warrior of Thezmarr.
King Artos cleared his throat, looking down at her with kindness. ‘I do not doubt your courage —’ Thea’s heart was already sinking, her knees buckled. ‘Or your honourable intentions,’ he continued. ‘However, the past has shown us the way forward.
Twenty years ago, a dark day in history altered the course of all our paths. It was proven then that for a woman to hold a blade was to risk peace in our realms. The prophecy spoke, the law was changed.
And thus it must remain so.’ Thea bit back a broken sob.
The king rested a hand on his heart. ‘I wish I could allow it, child. But to change the law now would be to endanger the midrealms. It has taken a long time to reforge our strength and power to hold the darkness at bay. Therefore the answer, I’m afraid, is no.’ Thea opened her mouth, but closed it at the widening eyes of the servants.
She was no longer in Thezmarr. There would be no arguing here.
Her fate, it seemed, was sealed.
