Cinders on the Wind Page 3

  Malcolm squinted at Ethlin. “What exactly did you see in this … vision?”

  Ethlin rubbed her eyes as if it would make her recollections more vivid. Despite the sunlight shining into the room, she shivered. “I heard crowds, laughter, and applause. I saw tents and banners and squires running about. Then lord—Ser Staverly on his horse wearing heavy armor, a falcon crest shield, wings on his helm. He’s carrying a lance and is about to charge—” She gripped the table, a flash of dread shooting through her.

  “It’s all right, child,” Patrycias said. “We’re right here.”

  “There’s a man in the stands where the crowds are. He pulls an arrow from his quiver. Knocks it … looses …”

  Malcolm leaned forward. “And?”

  Her throat felt parched. She took a deep breath and rubbed her face. It began to itch.

  “My lady,” the knight urged. “What next?”

  “Lord Staverly doesn’t reach his opponent. There’s a spurt of blood, and his lance falls from his grip. His steed rears. An arrow pierces his neck, just above the lip of his armor, below the edge of his helm—and he falls.”

  “This archer. Priestess Patrycias says you saw him as a member of the lord’s guard?”

  Ethlin nodded.

  “Lord Staverly competes against Ser Bannister tomorrow. I must know what this assassin looks like.”

  “His face … he looks sickly, lean, and pale. His eyes are small but searing as if they see through you. He was normal height, and thin—like I said, sickly.”

  “Anything else?” Malcolm shifted uncomfortably in his chair, irritated. “I need every detail. What color hair? Did he have stubble? Any scars?” He leaned back hard, armor ringing in the hall.

  Ethlin turned away, not liking his tone. She tried to focus on what she remembered.

  “This is hard for her,” Patrycias said. “I know it’s your duty, sir, but give her time with this.”

  Ser Malcolm made a low rumble in his throat.

  “Black hair, some stubble, no scars. That’s it.” She looked directly into the Kingsguard’s eyes. “There’s nothing else to say, only that he rode in the colors of Prestonpan Fells.”

  Malcolm nodded slowly, meeting her gaze.

  “You both must be thirsty.” Patrycias rose. “Ser Malcolm, can I offer you refreshment before you head back?”

  “No thank you, priestess. I must be on my way.” He turned to Ethlin. Her face grew slack, and she felt tired. “I can see, now, that this was difficult for you. Some people carry many fears inside them. Sometimes it’s best not to let them grow into a chain around your neck.”

  “I did not wish these things on myself. As I’m sure, there’s been men whose lives you didn’t want to take with your sword. Sometimes there are crafters that weave our lives, and we don’t know whom or what performs the art. They are beyond our control and hide their meanings. But that doesn’t mean we can’t do anything about it.”

  “You are wise for your age, milady.” Malcolm stood, his voice sterner. “We shall see if it’s wise to trust your visions. Blessings to you.” The Kingsguard strode for the door while Patrycias followed him out to the threshold of the temple.

  4

  Malcolm found himself taking a break at his favorite tavern. His armor clanked on the counter as he set down his heavy stein of ale. Today it wasn’t the heat making him thirsty. Like so many times, he drank to stymy the pain. And each time he was reminded of her, he found himself parched. He couldn’t believe how much Ethlin resembled his sister. The angle of her face. The piercing, yet kind eyes. The fair skin and brown hair. It brought back whispers in his mind, budding feelings of melancholy.

  The pain all started when he’d returned from campaign. He’d been gone for nine months, fighting alongside the king, as he’d always done before. But this time, he came back to death and betrayal. His beloved sister Mellia—the only real family he had left—had been killed by the plague that had set in on the western side of the capitol. He knew her work aiding the poor and downtrodden at the western Dragonmother temple would have its dangers. The poor were pestilent over there, and all it took was an outbreak. His sister’s big heart had ceased it to beat.

  To make matters worse, Malcolm no longer had his lover Bethya. Mellia and Bethya had been friends. When Mellia became sick, Bethya cared for her and in the meantime fell in love with Ned, the mage apprentice at the temple, who was charged with caring for the diseased. When Malcolm returned from campaign, Bethya was engaged to Ned, and when Malcolm spoke with her, she had the nerve to say she’d felt betrayed. That her friend was dying before her and once again, her lover was nowhere to be found, out on a distant battlefield.

  Malcolm wanted to beat Ned to a pulp when he’d confronted him in the temple. Ned explained that he had no idea Bethya had another man—to her he was already a memory. He also said he had lost his remaining family to the plague as well. All Malcolm could do was land one punch, and it was enough to shut the mage apprentice up and get Malcolm’s legs working enough to leave that part of the city.

  Ever since, he’d been a frequent visitor of Horace Stoutpour’s tavern. The publican and his staff had to break up drunken fights between Malcolm and patrons on many occasions. One such fight involved Malcolm launching drunken slurs on members of the Forlorn Brood, Em Regis’s most notorious sellsword gang. Swords were drawn, and it was Malcolm against ten armed men. He would’ve been killed if not for Horace alerting Sers Lambert and Artemis to drag their besotted comrade back to the barracks.

  After that incident, Malcolm tried his utmost to reduce his over-indulging.

  “You got ghosts in your mind,” Horace once said. “And you’re trying to drown them out with that.” He had pointed to Malcolm’s brimming stein.

  The man was right. As Malcolm sipped on his ale, he thought again of how much Ethlin reminded him of Mellia. He could tell she had a similar constitution to that of his sister. Mellia wasn’t just his sister—she had been his best friend.

  He remembered all the times they’d shared together as if the haunting tragedy of losing their parents could only bring them closer. Mellia’s generosity of spirit had even compelled him to volunteer every now and then at the temple. Cooking for the poor and homeless, delivering goods donated by the royal family, clearing out space in the temple for infirmaries and temporary lodgings for families suffering through tragedy.

  Mellia returned the favor to Malcolm by cheering for him the loudest at the tournaments. She and Bethya were always at the head of the stands, watching him joust for rings and spar in swords. Malcolm always made sure he bought two, deep-crimson roses for them, to hand them in victory.

  At the age of ten, Malcolm had struggled in his early Kingsguard training. When King Greenvale was too busy in his royal duties to talk, Mellia was his listener. He’d lumber up to his room in the Gray Keep battered and bruised and in a foul mood. His sister would be waiting for him, eager to hear about his day and what he had learned.

  Mellia had encouraged him to participate in other, more fun activities—related to Kingsguard training, she’d said. Playing hide and seek in the Gray Keep was a fun game to train a young knight to be patient and use his stealth to find his enemy. Battling his sister with small, wooden swords was also a good training module, she’d said—as long as he took it easy on her. In addition, Mellia possessed a keen mind and had versed him in long chess games in the castle library, beneath shelves of the ancient tomes that told the histories of the Rethan kingdoms.

  From time to time, Mage-Council Orbist would interrupt their games. They’d help him look for certain arcane texts on healing spells or spells on gaining wisdom and insight into other people’s lives. A wise and erudite man, Orbist also took the time to show Mellia and Malcolm a few chess moves that could easily upset an opponent’s strategy.

  At twelve, Malcolm desperately wanted to be accepted as junior Kingsguard so he could wear the armor and helm and serve in the king’s throne room and at the vanguard in battle
.

  Ser Lambert had told him he wasn’t quite ready and had half a year further to go. Malcolm rarely cried, but the tears came on that day—and it was Mellia’s soothing words that kept him from getting discouraged.

  The hardest battles didn’t take place on the battlefield. They were the ones that came afterward when friends and brothers you fought beside lay dead in a pool of blood on a field far from their homes. Mellia had made a quilt for Malcolm of the handful of friends he’d lost, and the king had allowed it to be hung in the grand hall of the Kingsguard barracks. Each time a battle was fought, names were added to honor their memory.

  On his seventeenth birthday, Mellia had given him a sword as a gift. With the help of the king and queen, she hired a blacksmith to forge the strongest sword in all the Backlands. Specifically designed by her, the blade was polished steel with etchings of the Gray Keep with filigree near the hilt. The pommel was made of the highest quality leather. Malcolm cherished this gift and brought it with him on campaign. In the battle, he lost this beloved sword in a cavalry charge. When he thought back, he saw this as the moment he lost his sister, too.

  Since her death, Malcolm would visit the grave dug outside the western walls of the capitol. He would sit and reflect, as he did now, looking out over the field where so many of the suffering had been buried. He would wonder why the gods saw fit for him to lose his sister, after having his parents taken away from him. He’d asked the gods why, at the same time, they’d allowed Bethya to desert him at a time when she was most needed. Of course, everyone had lost someone in the plague in one form or another. But in Malcolm’s eyes, he’d been completely betrayed by life—and the only thing to combat betrayal was loyalty. Loyalty to the kingdom that honored his service, to the royal family that took him and his sister in, and to the man who treated him like a son—the king.

  Before setting flowers, he’d always read the plaque the followers of the Dragonmother had put up.

  Here lies the died

  Of the sinister plague

  That hit the western capitol

  May the mages strive to find a cure

  May the sickness never return

  May we never forget those who suffered.

  Malcolm would never forget his sister. On his darkest nights, when he was the most alone or the most drunk, in a small corner of his mind he would still hear her voice. It was as if she was his conscience, repeating the phrase “You’re better than this.” He hoped he could heed these words in the days to come, especially in dealing with this new young woman, Ethlin, and her visions.

  Malcolm knew of magic. He hadn’t witnessed much first hand, but he’d heard enough stories and seen healing spells performed by Mage Orbist at the castle to know it existed, beyond a doubt. But he didn’t believe everything he heard. He’d seen charlatans thrown into the dungeon for pretending to be skilled in the magic arts, only to take advantage of rich and poor alike. And he’d seen those mage-wannabes at Dragonmother temple fail in their work. He’d seen firsthand how one stole a man’s lover out from under him, while he failed to protect the sister he loved.

  He questioned Ethlin’s abilities, but before finishing the last sip of his drink, he decided he should at least give her a chanc

  5

  Day four of the tournament arrived with the largest crowds yet, both on the nobles and commoners sides. When Malcolm decided to walk amongst the participants’ tents with their menagerie of colors, flags, banners, armor, and weaponry, he made it a priority to stop by Lord Staverly’s. His canopy and guards donned the sunset orange-yellow and ocean blue of Prestonpan Fells. Neither the squires loading the rack of lances nor the two guards at the tent entrance had the penetrating look or gaunt features Ethlin described.

  Malcolm approached the two guards and stated, “Ser Malcolm, here to offer the king’s compliments.”

  The two men nodded and stepped aside.

  Inside the spacious tent, a squire was assisting Lord Staverly with his armor for the day. Four guards stood at the perimeter. A man who was likely one of the lord’s advisors chewed on an apple from the fruit bowl at a side table. No one appeared to be the assassin.

  “Says he can’t sit down at all,” Staverly chuckled. “Ten rounds of galloping and then falling on his ass chapped Ser Dogmill’s hide a little too raw.”

  “Could’ve been worse,” the advisor said, crunching on his bite. “He could’ve been unhorsed from the first.”

  Lord Staverly laughed at this and then noticed Malcolm. “Hello, Kingsguard!” he bellowed jubilantly. “Do I look the part of a participant?”

  “You do, my lord.”

  “And what does the king have to say? To be sure and not make a fool of Ser Bannister? He should slide down the banister of his saddle soon enough.”

  Malcolm smiled. “Yes, my lord. The king simply wishes you good luck this day,” it was a white lie, used to merely gain access to the tent, but didn’t hurt anyone, “and to know that your family has a good view of the arena.”

  “Ah, well. I knew that.” Staverly fidgeted with his gorget and chainmail. “But it is nice to receive such a hospitable message. Tell the king, I am honored to compete, as always.”

  “I shall,” Malcolm bowed.

  “Tell me,” the advisor said from across the tent, reaching for a grape. “Do you get tired of lugging around that armor all day? That helm must give you quite the pain in the neck.”

  “It is the requisite of duty,” Malcolm said, turning.

  Lord Staverly tsked. “Come now, Advisor Slake. Let’s not pester a man of the Guard.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean to pester, my lord. Only out of curiosity do I pry. That outfit just seems a bit excessive, especially in a heat wave such as this. You must sweat profusely. What was your name again?”

  “Malcolm.”

  “You fought at Thunderfields. Yes, I’ve heard of you. They say you cut down ten Ballardians, one of them a champion.”

  “Is that so?” Lord Staverly eyed him, waving his squire away while stepping over to the fruit bowl. “Good man.”

  “Beside the champion, though, I’m afraid the left wing of Ballardian forces were soldiers in training.” Advisor Slake was an annoying man. “An unequal match, I think—a Kingsguard regiment against neophytes.”

  “Oh, stop it,” Staverly said, chewing on his fruit. “He helped forestall the bloody Ballardians, didn’t he? And that’s all that matters. Well, we don’t want to keep you, Ser Malcolm. You must have other concerns. Thank the king for me.”

  “I will, my lord,” he bowed, avoiding eye contact with the pompous advisor. He strode out of the tent, perturbed.

  Despite the hum in the air enveloping the arena and semi-shaded area beneath the noble side of the stands where he stood, Malcolm shifted his stance more often than normal. First, he hadn’t seen anyone matching the description Ethlin gave him. And then he had to deal with that insinuating bootlick Slake in the tent. True, there were other guards back at Staverly’s main encampment outside the castle walls, and there may have been others off duty. For these reasons, he continued to scan the crowds. All this hinged on a maybe. Maybe what the young Seer saw was true.

  As an extra precaution, he told only one other Kingsguard—Artemis. The lad had a reputation for being discreet and didn’t want to raise any suspicions or commotion all on the word of a young girl at the temple. He’d even gotten the hint Mage-Council Orbist wanted to keep it as mum as possible.

  A horn rang out, echoing through the stands, and the herald announced the next knight, wearing black armor with white and red colors speckled with symbols of swans. The knight who opposed him wore the less flamboyant colors of brown and light blue, with the sigil of a bear claw upon his chest.

  The two knights saluted the king who was in a joyous mood, with a stein in his hand and the queen leaning over his makeshift throne, whispering in his ear. To his right sat Prince Barnabas and his wife, the gorgeous Princess Cathereen. On his left sat the king’s two daughters, who Malc
olm could never tell apart, along with their dour-faced husbands slurping on chalices. Malcolm felt pride witnessing the festivities, regardless of the situation he was in.

  There was a loud pop and splintering of wood as a lance broke at contact with a shield. The bear claw knight’s squire ran over to replace the weapon at the opposite end. Cheers arose, and horses turned around and stomped their hooves before dashing off again. This time they both broke their lances but remained atop their steeds. Per tourney rules, each participant was given only three replacement lances. This was the last one for Bear Claw.

  Fortunately for him, two more rounds went by, his weapon still intact, though less could be said for the shield. It was bent inward at awkward angles from defense against his hard-hitting opponent. Bear Claw drifted in his saddle, woozy from the impact. Swan looked still and undaunted even with his face covered in the protective mask of his black helm. As they spurred their horses forward, Malcolm thought this would be the final round.

  Both knights raised their weapons. There was a more aggressive charge from Bear Claw’s mount as he kicked his heels into the beast’s sides. Just before contact, he lifted his lance slightly higher, and it hit the shoulder of his opponent. Flying from his saddle the swan knight hit the arena sand with a thud. To Malcolm’s surprise, it was over. The crowd roared. Bear Claw raised his lance in victory, while Swan, with the help of his squire, got to his feet clutching his shoulder and kicking the sand in disgust.

  After congratulations from the king, the arena was cleared of any visible splinters and wood chips. The herald introduced Ser Bannister Klimek of Nasantium, followed by Lord Willis Staverly of Prestonpan Fells. Prominent cheers came from the stands where his house and family were perched. They were both quite the peacocks, but Malcolm spent only a brief moment noticing their attire. He scanned the guards entering the arena and began taking customary position at the perimeter of their lord’s side. Nothing.