CORGI BOOKS
Cover Page
Title Page
Contents
Copyright Page
Dedication
Also by Victoria Hanley
Acknowledgements
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
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www.randomhouse.co.uk
THE SEER AND THE SWORD
A CORGI BOOK 978 0 552 55270 7 (from January 2007)
0 552 55270 4
First published in Great Britain by Scholastic Books
Scholastic edition published 1999
This edition published 2006
3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Victoria Hanley, 1999
The right of Victoria Hanley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Papers used by Random House Children’s Books are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
Set in 11/14.25pt New Baskerville
Corgi Books are published by Random House Children’s Books, 61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA, a division of The Random House Group Ltd, in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd, 20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061, Australia, in New Zealand by Random House New Zealand Ltd, 18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand, and in South Africa by Random House (Pty) Ltd, Isle of Houghton, Corner Boundary Road & Carse O’Gowrie, Houghton 2198, South Africa
THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009
www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Bookmarque Ltd, Croydon, Surrey
To my children, Emrys and Rose
Grateful thanks to the following people: my parents, for teaching me to love books; my husband, Tim, sisters Bridget and Peggy, and friend Mary Ann, for their support; the many dear friends who make my life so interesting; Ben Sharpe, for his astute input while editing this book; Sophie Hicks, my agent, and David Fickling, publisher, for their wonderful work on behalf of this story.
Also available by Victoria Hanley:
www.victoriahanley.com
Torina gripped the crystal, gazing into it. She had wanted to put the seer’s gift behind her, and it had found her again, given back by Landen. How had he come to have it? It still held the warmth of his body.
In the crystal, small dark rainbows floated across a panelled room. Torina recognized it as a favourite refuge of her father’s, one he used when he wanted privacy, a place to sort out the issues that came to him for decision.
Her father appeared. He stood alone, bare-headed, looking into the fire burning in the hearth. His head swivelled as the door opened and Vesputo came in. Torina heard the door close behind Vesputo with a soft echoing thud. The king motioned him forward, then turned back to the fire.
No, Papa! She screamed inwardly, filled with horror. Vesputo’s face showed single-minded, emotionless determination. She stretched out a hand, as if she could stop him.
He advanced to stand behind the king. He pulled a small stiletto from his belt.
No!
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In the castle of Archeld, Queen Dreea sat at her loom. Her vibrant weavings were prized throughout the kingdoms. They revealed a quiet passion the queen never showed in face or voice.
Beside Dreea, curled on a rug, her daughter Torina stitched embroidery. Long, slender fingers pulled the needle back and forth, forming the pattern of a rising sun: the sign of the house of Kareed. Mirandae, the queen’s close servant, spun wool, her wheel humming.
Torina stuck the needle crosswise in her spool and flexed her hands. ‘Enough sewing, Mamma! Let me go out and ride.’
Dreea smiled patiently. ‘The sun is ready to set. You rode this morning.’
‘The boys are still out.’
‘And you are not a boy.’ Dreea paused to feed a thread of scarlet into the pattern of blue she worked.
‘They have the chance to watch for King Kareed! He’s my father – I should be the first to see him!’ Wispy tendrils of Torina’s red curls straggled free of their ribbons.
Dreea shifted, laying hands on her full belly, thinking with regret of how Kareed’s nature goaded him to pit his strength against the might of other kingdoms. Once again, he was at war to extend his borders. Ever since he could swing a sword, the pride of warriorship had driven him to battle. Each time he prevailed, he drew his circle wider. Now his rule stretched north to Glavenrell, east to Desante, west to the sea, and south to Bellandra.
Bellandra, kingdom of peace, with a rich heritage of art and culture. Bellandra, whose citizens had enjoyed generations of harmony and prosperity. Dreea wondered, wistfully, what it would be like to live in such a land. It was said their magic Sword could stand against any foe. If that were so, what fate awaited Kareed?
Fear and hope struggled inside Dreea. She’d seen Bellandra herself, and loved the hospitable country. She didn’t want its ancient beauty to be destroyed by war. Yet war was exactly what Kareed was determined to carry there. If he were the victor, he would force Bellandra into servitude to Archeld. And if the famous Sword defeated him, what would Dreea do? She loved Kareed with all the enduring tenacity of a gentle heart. He filled all the landscape of her tender soul.
Now, she feared Kareed had overreached destiny, and only sorrow could be the result. She had prayed and prayed that something good would come of this.
‘Your father will be away a while longer,’ the queen told her restless daughter.
‘I still want to ride!’
Dreea shook her head. Many had told her that a more unruly spirit than Torina’s could not be found, even in the wild forests of Archeld.
When fiery King Kareed married Dreea, he passed over many ladies of more obvious beauty and greater riches. She knew people wondered why he kept such a queen, who had no taste for war and never bore him an heir for Archeld. It had been nine years since the birth of their daughter; nine years and seven miscarriages. Sad that such a powerful king could not command something so simple as having a son. But with Dreea, and only with her, Kareed the mighty king could become Kareed the loving man. When they were together, he relaxed into warmth, telling her all the secrets of his life. She doubted anyone guessed how much she knew. She never passed on his confidences, guarding them as closely as if they were her own.
And now, at last, her pregnancy was advanced; when the moon returned once more to fullness, she would deliver again. Perhaps this time it would be a boy.
A small commotion at the door to the hall drew Torina’s gaze. Her eyes, coloured like the sea, lit with surprise as her comrade Zeon rushed in, face flushed.
‘Torina!’ his boyish voice announced. ‘We saw the king riding, beyond the first ridge!’
A guard pressed through the door, grabbing Zeon roughly. ‘That will be quite enough!’ With Zeon wriggling in his grasp, the guard turned to Dreea. ‘Sorry, my lady, for the intrusion. If the boys can be believed, your husband will be here by sunset.’
Dreea felt a strange leaping in her heart. Unthinking, she stood and took a step towards the door. She heard a crash and turned in surprise to see Mirandae rushing at her with outstretched arms. The room tilted oddly and the light went out, snuffed by a dark roar rising in her ears.
Torina was hardly aware of her mother swaying and Mirandae upsetting the spinning wheel in her haste to aid her mistress. All the young princess wanted was to beat Zeon through the door. Now, hair streaming behind her, she lay along her horse’s neck, nudging Stina into a faster gallop. The westering sun caught the dust of a cloud of riders and glinted on the gold helmet of the king.
His amber-coloured stallion charged ahead of his men. One large arm swept the princess off her horse, red beard mingling with red curls as they embraced.
‘How’s my princess! Out here, near dark, unattended? Did you escape again?’
‘I wanted to meet you.’
‘And here I am.’
‘Did you win the war?’
He snorted. ‘Would I come home if I did not?’
She smiled, happy in her father’s victory. They rode slowly, her horse trotting near. Kareed asked about her mother’s health and Torina answered that the queen was well. Beaming, the king leaned into his saddlebag and brought out a fist.
‘This is for you, all the way from Bellandra. Hold out your hand.’
He put a crystal sphere in her palm. Her fingers barely fitted round it. Torina held it up to the embers of the sun. Inside the crystal, light swam and brightened; a world of gold.
‘How lovely.’ She nestled in the curve of her father’s arm. Moments alone with the king, without soldiers or petitioners or servants, were few.
Hooves pounded towards them from the direction of the castle. It was the guard who had hustled Zeon out. He galloped up.
‘My lord,’ he breathed. ‘I’m sorry, my lord, about the princess. She slipped away.’
‘She’s a true daughter of a king.’
The guard bit his lip. ‘Sir . . . it seems the queen was taken early.’
The king’s indulgent smile changed to a frown.
‘Vesputo!’ he barked. From the horsemen following, a rider detached and sped forward. Dark moustache and heavy eyebrows marked a handsome face.
‘Sir?’
‘Take the child.’ Torina was handed into Vesputo’s saddle, as if she wasn’t grown up enough to get up and down herself. ‘When you’ve delivered her safely, ride back and see to it the troops are all accounted for.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I can ride Stina, Papa!’
Not even looking at her, the king galloped away with the guard, their horses veiled in dust on the darkening plain.
Torina sat very still, sidesaddle on Vesputo’s horse, clasping her new crystal and blinking.
‘What did the guard mean about my mother?’
The soldier shrugged.
Torina stared at the crystal, rotating it in her hand. She brought it close to her face, then gasped as the dimming light congealed in its middle and began to form a face. It was her mother’s. White, exhausted, laying on a pillow. Another face bent over her, a woman. Torina was somehow sure the woman was a midwife.
The midwife took the queen’s hand and rubbed it. A voice came from her, echoing inside Torina’s head as though mixed with surf sounds.
‘A son, my lady. Stillborn.’
Dreea’s face twisted into sobs.
‘No!’ Torina screamed, sliding down from Vesputo’s saddle. She ran to Stina.
‘What is it?’ Vesputo called. Torina leaped on her horse and drove her heels into the flanks, heading for home.
Outside the queen’s rooms, a group of women stood, waiting for news. Into this small crowd, Torina burst like a quick flame trying to take hold on green wood. She almost made it through the door.
Though she flailed and kicked, the women surrounded her, their soft arms firm as trees. She cried and called for her mother. They would not let her pass. When her cries gave way to shrieks of indignant anguish, some of them carried her to her room and stayed immovably by her side.
Dawn was beginning when Ancilla, Kareed’s old mother, crept in to be with her granddaughter. The girl lay huddled in her carved bed, covered with blankets carefully worked by Dreea’s patient hands.
Ancilla had borne only boys, and all had been killed in the Sliviite wars except Kareed, the son who arrived when she believed she was past the age for conceiving. Now she was older than anyone else, so old that wrinkles almost swallowed the delicate features that had once rallied kings. Yet her steps were still light, her eyes filled with the famous fire of the warrior line of Archeld.
She sat beside Torina, her bones barely dimpling the mattress. She smoothed the girl’s wild hair. Torina’s eyes fluttered open. She kissed Ancilla’s withered fingers.
‘Where’s Mamma?’
‘Resting.’
‘The baby?’
‘A stillborn son.’ The old eyes misted.
Torina hugged her middle, staring as though impaled on some inner vision. The old queen followed her granddaughter’s gaze and saw a pure crystal globe sitting on the bureau across from the bed.
‘Stillborn!’ the child cried pointing. ‘Gramere, the crystal my father gave me told me that yesterday!’
Ancilla stared. Yesterday. The queen delivered this morning. How could the girl know? Was Torina a seer? Ah heaven, what a great and terrible gift, if she was.
Ancilla reached out to hold the shivering girl. Her thin voice quavered the ritual song of mourning. ‘One I love is taken from me . . .’
Torina joined her in broken, childish tones.
‘We will never walk together over the fields of earth,
Never hear the birds in the morning.
Oh, I have lived with you and loved you
And now you are gone away.
Gone where I cannot follow
Until I have finished all my days.’
King Kareed leaned against the stone wall of the courtyard, looking out over the road where all travel from the plains must pass. The army was returning, and the king stood in silent review of his troops. The men rode in disciplined ranks, saluting as they went by. Later, when they reached their quarters or reunited with their families, there would be rejoicing. A great victory. Bellandra, the invincible, conquered. Bellandra’s Sword taken. Yes, they would celebrate. But now, in the presence of the king, whose suit of mourning white proclaimed his latest loss, they were subdued.
At last, the rear contingent came into view. Vesputo, grim-faced and dusty, turned his horse into the courtyard of the castle, followed by a small band of soldiers. The king went to meet them. He gripped Vesputo’s hand as his protégé swung down.
‘All accounted for?’
Vesputo nodded.
‘Well done, Commander. Go refresh yourself. I know how well you deserve it.’
Vesputo took a deep breath and formed the formal words heard so many times during his five years serving King Kareed. ‘My spirit is saddened by the flight of your loved one.’
Kareed put a hand to his chest, then let it drop. ‘May it be granted that at the end of my days we reunite.’ Kareed thought of the many battles fought side by side with Vesputo. ‘A son.’
‘Ah. Sir, I—’
‘Next time, Commander, you’ll stay here and guard my family.’
The king stopped. Torina stood a few feet away, a mourning gown draped round her. How long had she been there? Her face was almost as white as her dress. He remembered he had not seen his daughter since she rode to meet him on the plains.
This stillbirth has changed us all.
He extended an arm. Her tentative fingers clasped his. Where was the eager child who had leaped into his arms only the day before?
Her small hand curled round the present he had given her. She held it out. ‘This came from Bellandra?’
He nodded.
‘Who gave it to you?’
‘I saw it and thought of you. I forget who gave it to me.’
‘Did you see my face in it?’
‘Your face?’ Kareed frowned in puzzlement.
‘You’ve forgotten whose it was?’ she persisted. Her voice sounded strained.
‘Too many battles to remember all the places I’ve been.’
But Kareed did remember. The disturbing woman, older than Ancilla, bent and wizened. He had burst into her room during the search for the Sword, when they were sacking Bellandra. She had looked up at him with ageless eyes, then down at the sparkling sphere in her lap. She smiled a twisted smile.
‘Ah,’ she moaned, and kissed the crystal. She held it up to him. ‘For your red-haired daughter.’
Then she folded in front of him. When he prodded her with a sword, she never moved. Kareed had stopped to pry the shining thing from her dead hand, and slipped it into his pouch for Torina.
How had this old woman known he had a red-haired daughter? But then, he was a red-haired man.
My son! The pain possessed his soul again. He had seen the tiny, waxy-blue, perfectly formed infant who would never draw breath. If I rode slowly, would you have lived?
He was sure Dreea would have no more children. Yet he could not bear to put aside his beloved wife for a younger, fertile woman. The king looked fondly down on Torina’s shining head, bent over the crystal.
The last child in a long and formidable line.
Thinking of her that way made him remember the end of a different lineage.
‘I brought you another present, Torina,’ he said, suddenly grim. ‘Vesputo! Fetch the boy.’
The commander quickly returned. Before him walked the former prince of Bellandra. Dark, curling hair matted round his face; his features, under bruises and scrapes, looked still as driftwood. Dust and dirt had obliterated the elegant lines of his clothes. His legs, just beginning to lengthen towards manhood, were unsteady; his arms tied behind his back.
Vesputo thrust the young prisoner forward. The boy stumbled and fell. Torina sprang to help him. Kareed saw the boy’s eyes flicker wide for an instant, his gaze like a hot sun frozen in ice, as the king’s daughter pulled him to his feet.
‘Who is he?’ Torina asked.
‘The son of a king.’
‘Why are his hands tied?’
‘He’s a prisoner. And the son of a king no more. I brought him here for you, Torina. He will make a fine slave.’ Silently he added, Yes, a slave. No matter that none of your other servants are slaves. This is different. This will crown the defeat of Bellandra.
Torina looked at the boy, at his heavy curling hair and wild, remote eyes.
‘If he is my slave,’ she asked, ‘does that make him my own?’
‘All your own.’
‘I can do whatever I want with him?’
The king nodded.
The princess shivered. ‘What is your name, son of a king?’ she asked.
‘Landen.’ The boy’s manner, still that of a prince, contrasted oddly with his dusty rags and bruises.
‘Vesputo,’ Torina said.
‘Princess?’
‘Cut his ropes, please.’
The commander looked to his king, who inclined his head. A blade was drawn. Vesputo severed the ropes carelessly, trailing fresh blood. Landen rubbed his wrists as Torina stepped closer to him.
‘My father fought your father.’ She said it very softly, speaking as if no king or soldiers looked on. For her, they must have been forgotten.
Landen looked at the ground. A pulse in his neck beat, like the heart of a new-hatched bird.
‘Landen,’ she whispered. ‘I never had a slave.’
The boy stood quietly.
‘And I never will,’ she continued, lifting her chin. ‘Papa,’ her voice rose. ‘You gave him to me. I set him free.’
Kareed’s eyebrows billowed, a ferocious storm gathering. When Vesputo suggested making Landen a slave, it was to demean the spirit of Bellandra. King Veldon had strutted for too long behind his magic Sword, looking down his nose at warrior kings. Prince Landen of Bellandra, King Veldon’s only son, a slave to Kareed’s daughter! That would give everyone pause.
Now, she threw in his teeth this gift so dearly won. For a century, no one had dared attack Bellandra, but he, Kareed, had done it. The king felt the familiar battle rage rising. He wanted to strike Torina flat. There she was, standing small and white beside him. But there was something in the way she clasped her hands together; it was what her mother did when he told her he was going to war. Kareed remembered how Dreea had pleaded with him to spare Bellandra, to let them keep their ways. Women knew nothing of war. They knew nothing of battles, princes and kings. He sighed, swallowing his anger. Perhaps I’ve allowed this war to sully my judgement. Torina knows I don’t keep slaves. And Bellandra’s defeat is complete without this boy. After all, he’s only thirteen – hardly more than a child.
The king forced his face into a smile and pushed a laugh from his chest. ‘By my helmet!’ he cried in his battle voice. ‘She’s the true daughter of a king!’
A light wind picked up the collective sigh in the courtyard and carried it away. Men went about their business; taking horses to the stables, oiling weapons and stacking leather armour.
Landen stood, islanded, in the stream of activity. He rubbed his wrists with shaking hands, chest heaving as if his lungs were a bellows demanding more air. The girl near him pretended not to notice, looking past him to the distant mountains. Vesputo had gone. The young princess spoke affectionately to King Kareed, calling him to her side.
Landen’s knees trembled as his father’s killer approached. He remembered that cruel fist batting him down, in the chamber of the Sword.
‘Landen.’ The king’s rough voice held no animosity.
‘Sir.’ The word felt like a betrayal.
‘You are now a member of my household. You’ll receive warrior training with the other boys.’
The exiled prince felt faint. His father’s dying words rang in his ears. Find someone who can teach you to fight.
Kareed shifted his feet. ‘I bear you no ill will. The past is buried.’
Not for me. My father is buried.
‘Torina,’ the king said. ‘Attend to this boy. See he’s fed, and get him washed.’ Kareed turned and left them.
Landen felt a small, confiding hand touch his arm.
‘This way,’ the red-haired girl guided. She led him into the castle. She moved with assurance through the halls, to a private room. There she gave him a soft chair, then went out into the hallway.
Landen scanned the room. It was the first time he’d been out of bonds or cages since Bellandra fell. If he ran out of the door, would anyone stop him? He was a fast runner. He could get away, steal a horse, make his way back to Bellandra.
But what about the Sword? His father had told him to get the Sword. And what about learning to fight? Did anyone in Bellandra even know how?
He heard the red-haired girl speaking imperiously to someone, ordering a bath, steaming hot. Landen’s filthy, blood-scabbed skin cried out for the relief of a soaking. His hands shook, much as he tried to control them. The girl came back.
‘Your bath will be ready in moments,’ she told him, and there was kindness in her haughty voice.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, ashamed of the weakness that made him shiver.
‘My name’s Torina,’ she volunteered.
He mumbled her name, feeling exhaustion in body and spirit. He knew he should thank her: for setting him free from slavery; for having the good nature to tend him. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.
He looked at the furniture. It was rich, well placed, well polished. This was the castle of the most powerful king on the continent, if the soldiers were to be believed, and he was inside it. How had Kareed gained so much wealth and influence? Not by justice or compassion. Not by kindness.
How had Landen’s father, wise King Veldon, renowned poet, generous, honest man, been overcome by a harsh aggressor like Kareed? How had justice been routed, and peace bled to death? Where had Bellandra gone wrong?
Landen bit quivering lips as he pondered the answer. Veldon was good, but not a good warrior. He didn’t know how to fight, didn’t think he’d ever have to. Kareed won because he was the stronger warrior.
Landen didn’t like it. He didn’t like it, but knew it was true. In the Sword’s chamber, it had been Kareed who knew how to pick up a weapon, and he had done it without hesitation, with power and with glee, while Landen faltered, wasting precious seconds.
Running now would lose him his chance to find out what made this king the victor in every conquest he undertook. If Landen left, it would be like handing Kareed the Sword all over again. No, he must not go. He had to stay, learn everything he could. Kareed had promised he would be trained; and though Kareed was a ruthless invader, Landen had heard that his word was good.
I’ll hold you to your promise, King Kareed. And one day, I’ll take the Sword from you. When I do, I’ll know how to use it.
A tap on the open door, and a large woman appeared. Torina took Landen’s hand again, as if he was a small child, and he allowed her to lead him. They followed the woman down a hallway to a luxurious private bath.
The boy bathed without thought of modesty, nearly weeping with gratitude for the water’s heat and the glorious abrasions of fine soap. He was so tired it was a valiant effort to towel himself dry and step into the clothes Torina thoughtfully brought him. Sturdy, working clothes, they fitted, more or less. His ragged, stained Bellandran garments were gone.
She took him back to the other room, and had food and water fetched. As he ate and drank, she watched quietly. The bath, and coming to a decision to stay in Archeld, had washed away his tremors. He was glad.
Torina went to get more food, and he felt himself slipping into sleep; only dreamily aware when she returned. He was never sure if he imagined it but, as sleep claimed him, he thought he felt her light finger tracing the features of his face.
In the bowels of the castle of Archeld stood an ancient door, cut in stone. Kareed, carrying a torch, fitted a key into the lock. Beside him, Vesputo held a long wooden box. The door opened with a creak of disuse.
The dank smell of close air greeted them as they entered the vault. A bare dirt floor and stone walls housed boxes covered with dusty cloths. In the centre of the room was a large, pyramid-shaped steel box. Kareed bent to open it. Taking the long box from Vesputo, Kareed set it down. He lifted its lid, revealing the Sword of Bellandra. The blade shimmered pale and sharp in the torchlight. It was so resplendent that a stab of reproach hit the king as he closed the Sword into the pyramid. He shot bolts and fastened locks on the pyramid’s sides.
‘Old Talsed counselled me that this pyramid of steel will disguise the Sword of Bellandra and mute its power,’ Kareed said. ‘And he knows more than he ought to about enchantments.’
‘Forgive me, my lord, but why not carry it yourself, as a token of your victory?’
‘Ah, my friend, I dare not. There’s said to be a mighty curse on anyone who lifts this Sword for conquest. Who knows if it’s true; it may not be. Certainly, the weapon turned out to be useless to Bellandra, for all its reputation of invincible magic. But there’s no call to invite a curse. I don’t have any need of this Sword, I’m strong enough without it.’
‘True indeed. If you don’t intend to wear it, why not get rid of it?’
‘My advisors tell me it cannot be destroyed. There is an enchantment on it, though of what sort I can’t tell. Perhaps it’s losing power. It hasn’t been raised in battle since King Landen the First fought off hundreds of invaders, all of them warriors of note, and that was many generations ago.’
‘Strange that Veldon never tried to use it.’
Kareed shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Stupid. Stupid to remain complacent after the message I sent him. Stupid not to post scouts or send spies. And stupid to try to parley his way out of war when we arrived to do battle. After the warnings I gave, did he think I wouldn’t keep my word? He was a fool to ignore me.’
Vesputo nodded wryly. ‘Who can account for it?’
‘At any rate, this weapon holds the spirit of his people, and must not be set free.’
‘Ah. Then you want to keep the Sword in this vault so it doesn’t fall into anyone else’s hands?’
The king assented, making sure all the locks were secure. ‘You and I will keep this secret. If anyone asks what became of it, say the Sword was destroyed.’
* * *
Before she went to bed, Torina slipped into the small room where she had left the strange boy. He was still fast asleep. Should she wake him? Take him somewhere? Her father said he was now a member of the household. All the boys in training lived in a barracks on the far side of the king’s house, near the practice field. Zeon had told her about it; they slept in bunks, took their meals and practised the arts of war. All under the fierce eye of Emid, the trainer.
Should this boy be with them? If he woke up, would he wonder what to do? She would not like to be alone at night in a strange house in a far land. Her father had called him the son of a king. King Veldon ruled Bellandra, so King Veldon must be Landen’s father. What happened to kings who lost the war? His mother was Queen Anise. She had died before this. But what about his father? Where was his father now?
Torina went to Gramere with her problem. The sharp old eyes watched closely.
‘Veldon’s son, Landen,’ she murmured. ‘Sad those two men fought – your father and King Veldon. I always hoped they would keep the peace. Torina, my dear, my son takes no prisoners among rulers. Landen’s father is dead.’
Torina felt a cold shudder. How dreadful, that when kings fought, one of them must die.
‘What’ll I do, Gramere? No one else is helping him. I think they forgot him.’
‘Go to bed, child. I’ll send Maude to be with the boy. If he wakes up, she’ll let him know to stay in the room. In the morning, come to me and we’ll take him to the barracks.’
Torina walked through the familiar halls of the castle, her mind sad. What would it mean to her, to sleep alone in a foreign country, with her parents dead? All those bruises and cuts she’d seen; why had the soldiers been so unkind?
As soon as dawn filtered in, Torina was awake. She bounced into her clothes. She found Gramere snoozing in the great carved bed of her ancestors. The old queen was instantly awake at Torina’s touch. Together they went to the small room where Landen lay. Ancilla dismissed her servant as the boy stirred. He stretched guardedly, looking at them with large, doubtful eyes.
‘I knew your father,’ Ancilla said. ‘Long ago. He was a fine man. None better.’
Landen sat up. He looked at the floor.
‘Come, young man, there’s no cause to be ashamed of grieving for a good man who died too soon.’
He gave her a darting glance. She sat beside him and spoke firmly.
‘I am Ancilla, mother to King Kareed. I say what I please in this house, though I may not choose to say it to everyone. You’ve lost your father, and your country. It will not be easy for you – not for a long time. But remember, you can still be the son your father would be proud of.’
Landen said nothing, but his shoulders relaxed.
‘You’ve met my grandchild, Princess Torina. We’ll take you to the barracks now. That’s where you’ll live until you’re grown. Now help me up, and I’ll show you where to pass your water.’
Fascinated, Torina saw Landen get to his feet and bend to Ancilla. He lifted her grandmother with graceful ease. Torina realized, with awe, that this boy had been raised a prince in a fabled country. A little while ago, before her father went to Bellandra, Landen was going to be a king. King of Bellandra.
Torina had heard stories of that mystical land. Her mother had been there. Dreea had been friends with Queen Anise, years before. When Anise died, Dreea lit candles for her. Dreea said that in Bellandra people did the work they most loved. All the children wore bright colours. Every building was beautiful. The sky filled with rainbow sights whether it had been raining or not. And no wars . . .
No wars.
Torina had learned to be proud that her father always won the wars. Now, looking at the bruised and haunted face of a dead man’s son, she was seized with shame. Her father should not have brought war to Bellandra. Why had he done it? There must have been a good reason. But what if there hadn’t? What if King Kareed only wanted to fight? What if he killed a good man (he must be good, Gramere had called him good), killed him just because he wanted his kingdom?
She wanted to curl up and never move. Gramere’s eyes bathed her with tenderness. The tightness in her stomach eased.
* * *
Outside, the world shimmered under a spell of dew. The upright figure of the old queen led the way over the grounds behind the castle. Close behind came the captive boy, with an expression in his eyes like a creature that cannot be tamed yet knows it has been snared.
Trees dripped on either side as they went, while gold rays of new sun shot through here and there. Torina wondered if she’d see inside the barracks at last. After hiking for perhaps a quarter-hour, a large wooden building sprang into view. It was built simply and sturdily, left unpainted.
Marching to the front door, Ancilla rapped sharply. They could hear boys inside. Eric, a tall young man, opened. He squinted at them. Torina spoke up eagerly.
‘Eric, would you fetch the trainer?’
Eric disappeared inside, while other boys grouped themselves in the doorway, the young ones staring.
Soon Emid, the trainer, stood there. Torina had seen Emid about the grounds since she could remember. His fierce face never scared her. She knew he was there to protect her.
Emid rotated his great shoulders. ‘You called, my queen?’
Ancilla gestured towards Landen. ‘Emid, the king has left word that this boy is to be brought up in his household.’
‘The prisoner from Bellandra?’ Emid made a sweep of his arm to scatter the gawking boys surrounding him, and stepped out of the barracks. The door shut behind him.
‘You are telling me to train this boy, madam?’
‘My dear Emid, the orders do not come from me. Keep in mind, this child should not be answerable for the actions of my warmongering son.’ She looked every bit as ferocious as the trainer. ‘Let him grow up here. In time, Archeld will become his home. He has no other now.’
Emid shook his head. ‘Child he may be, but he won’t forget.’
‘Give him something else to remember.’
Emid turned on Landen. ‘Boy—’
‘His name is Landen,’ Ancilla interrupted.
Emid sighed. ‘Landen. Can you live here in Archeld, forgetting the past? Obeying my orders?’
The boy’s voice was clear and ringing, without being loud. ‘You said yourself I wouldn’t forget,’ he answered.
‘I said it. I meant it.’
‘Then why do you ask if I’ll forget?’
All four stood silent a moment, while Emid gnawed his lip.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I want to know if you can live here and obey my orders.’
‘I can.’
Emid shook the boy’s hand. ‘Very well. Landen, come inside and we’ll find a place for you.’
That was all. Landen disappeared through the doorway, and Torina walked away with Ancilla.
Dreea returned to her weaving, very pale, even quieter than before. Sometimes the king sat beside her and they talked, apart from everyone. Then Dreea’s eyes glowed and her movements quickened.
Torina hovered near her mother till Dreea begged her to walk outside and amuse herself.
In the courtyard, Torina climbed the low wall and sat with legs dangling. Below she could see the training field. She decided to watch the boys go through their exercises.
Emid was conducting seltec, the tests that determined the level of warriorship for each boy. During the test, every soldier in training paired with someone near his size and fought with a variety of weapons. When they had done seltec for a few weeks in practice, the final championships would be public games, with crowds gathered to watch. Those who excelled in any field would receive the most comprehensive training – they would become members of Archeld’s warrior elite.
Today they were practising hand-to-hand combat. Torina saw Zeon best another boy and strut to the sidelines. She picked out Landen, off to one side, away from the clot of boys and young men. The trainer called out two names, and Eric and Beron came to the centre.
Torina was fond of Eric and disliked Beron, a large young man who often used his size to bully the younger children. She watched avidly as the boys circled each other, throwing punches. They seemed well matched, and neither could land a hit. Then Beron said something. Eric looked behind him. Beron’s fist was swift and vicious. Eric spun round and lunged for Beron, catching him a blow that sent Beron to his knees. Eric followed up with a brutal chop to the back. Emid pushed in to declare Eric the victor.
Torina squealed with satisfaction. Feeling a light weight on her shoulder, she turned to see Ancilla’s hand. Impulsively, she pulled her grandmother to the stairway from the courtyard that led to the practice field.
When the field was in close view, they could see Landen and Jelton fighting. Landen was easily beaten.
‘Gramere, he’s a prince! He should be best of all,’ Torina protested, not happy to see Landen thrown in the dust.
‘Ah, child, war was never something King Veldon planned for his son. Landen was raised to be a fair man and a gentle-minded king.’
‘But everyone knows kings have to fight if they want to keep their lands.’
‘Not everyone.’
The combat test closed. Emid gave the call for archery. The old queen and young princess sat on a nearby boulder as the boys took turns aiming for a target thirty yards away.
Torina watched anxiously as Landen took his place. It seemed to her he was as bruised as when he arrived. Yes, those were fresh marks on his face and arms. When he stepped up to shoot, scattered gibes were heard. No one spoke up for him.
Each boy was allowed four arrows. As Landen lifted the bow and pulled it taut, Torina called out, ‘Hit the centre!’
Landen glanced at her and released the arrow. It went wide, grazing the outer rim of the target. Jeers sounded as he fitted another arrow. He shot quickly. The shaft lodged in the bull’s-eye. The shouting died away as Landen repeated this feat twice more. A few boys grinned. Most stared open-mouthed. Torina tried to smile at Landen but he didn’t look her way as he walked to the sidelines.
Clearly, there had been one art of war Veldon’s son had been trained to do well.
The older boys shot, and though some surpassed Landen because his first arrow counted, none but Beron were better archers.
Emid ordered regular target practice. Six lines of boys ranged in front of straw-backed targets. Torina had often watched archery from the courtyard, but never this near. She hurried to Emid.
‘I want to learn to shoot a bow.’
Emid met Ancilla’s gaze. The old queen shrugged.
‘Zeon, let the princess have your bow. You shot well today. Teach her how to pull a bowstring.’
Zeon, puffed with pride, demonstrated. Torina tried the bow and found it awkward. The string was tight, hard to pull. The arrow landed two feet to the left of her target. She fitted another shaft and this time the arrow fell to the other side. As she reached for another arrow, the bow was seized from her hand. Turning, she saw her father. His colour was high. Green eyes blazed.
‘Papa,’ she faltered.
‘A practice field is no place for a princess.’
She wanted to tell him she could shoot as well as any of them if he would let her practise. Wanted to yell out loud that, because of men like him, she must learn to defend her kingdom.
‘Leave at once.’ His tone left no room to argue.
She took Ancilla’s hand. They followed a track to the meadow, where wild flowers grew. There the girl threw herself on the ground among fragrant blossoms.
‘I want to learn to shoot!’ she burst out.
Ancilla carefully lowered herself to the grass.
‘My little Torina. There will always be warriors. Be glad you don’t have to be one of them.’
Torina sniffed. ‘How will I keep my kingdom if I don’t know how to fight?’
Ancilla sighed. ‘You know, my dear, that I’m very old?’
‘I know.’
‘For all my years, what have I learned? That there will always be enough killers. Leave the killing to them. Wherever you find something good, help it grow.’
Torina caressed a flower with her finger. She brought her face near the beautiful, fragile thing.
‘I wish I could take these flowers home and help them grow. But they don’t need me.’
Her grandmother smiled. ‘When the seeds fall in a few weeks, we’ll gather some. You can have a flower garden.’
‘Gramere, if I were a boy, they would train me to keep my kingdom. They must believe someone else will rule.’
‘Yes. The man you marry.’
Torina bent her eyes on the flowers, thinking of her mother. Dreea was always quietly occupied and seldom tried to influence what happened. In her mind, Torina tried on such a life. She saw herself in her mother’s place, weaving patiently, watching and waiting for a king.
She knew she could never live that way.
The grand seltec competition was scheduled. Several days of archery, knife-throwing and matched combat, attended by crowds of Archeldans who would feast, relax, and cheer their favourites.
Landen wrestled with the knowledge that his public humiliation would be great. He could hardly beat even the youngest boys in combat. All his early training went against it: he’d been taught to be compassionate and thoughtful, to give everyone a chance. And though he was determined to break his old habits, the maxim of his childhood, Do no one harm, echoed in his mind when he stood opposite an opponent.
He was utterly ignorant of how to use a staff. Fencing was something he’d learned as an art, using delicate foils. In Archeld, the boys fought all-out battles with heavy wooden swords. Landen had never been taught how to throw a dagger. Though naturally fleet of foot, the toll of his captivity had slowed him. He could handle a horse as well as anyone, yet Archeldan customs in horsemanship confused him.
One late afternoon during the time the boys were excused for rest or chores, Landen sought out Emid. He walked the now familiar paths from barracks to practice field, taking pleasure in the cool shade of dancing greenery.
As he moved into the glare of the practice field, he saw Emid sitting alone, feathering arrows. The trainer’s deep frown made him appear forbidding. Emid was gruff at the best of times. His shouts could pierce some hollow core in every boy. But Emid was fair. There were even moments when Landen believed this fierce man, who focused on training the fearsome fighting force of Archeld, actually liked him.
Landen consciously slowed his breathing as he approached Emid, reminding himself what his father had taught him: The moment is vast.
‘What is it?’ Emid asked, expertly testing a feather.
‘I’ve come to ask if I can be excused from the seltec.’
Emid’s frown intensified. ‘Why?’
‘I never learned to fight.’
Emid glared. ‘Every man should learn to fight.’
‘True,’ Landen agreed. ‘I want to learn, and I will. But, as you see, I wasn’t taught before: nothing but archery and fencing and how to ride. It was never serious, never in order to overcome someone.’
The trainer sighed, his face softening. ‘Young man, many boys have come to me over the years to ask exclusion. I’ve never granted it.’ He paused, waiting for a reply. Landen only looked at him. ‘I suggest you find someone willing to help teach you. You can have use of practice items at any time. But you must attend the seltec.’
Landen’s father and tutors had agreed that the boy was fortunate because his measures of men were so accurate. He knew people, without studying them. One glance at the trainer’s face told him it was useless to argue. This quality of knowing saved him time, and he always listened to it.
Someone willing. Landen thought of the other boys. All were too young, too hostile, or too indifferent.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
As he neared the bunkhouse, Landen saw a familiar knot of boys. His stomach clenched. Beron and his young followers; about five who tagged along. Landen could have turned then, skirted the woods and gone in by the front way, but they had seen him. He did his best to keep his pace even, face expressionless.
They moved in.
‘So, the Belly Lander.’ It was Beron’s name for him, deriving from the Archeldan word for weakling, and a sarcastic play on his homeland. Landen kept walking.
They stepped in front of and beside him.
‘What were you talking to Emid about, Belly?’ Beron’s face thrust close. The older boy’s eyebrows were his trademark, heavy and thick, from temple to temple.
Beron’s fist jabbed Landen in the chest. ‘Feel that, Belly?’
Landen knew if he hit back, Beron would maul him again. If he did nothing, he’d be punched and humiliated and allowed to go.
‘Go on, Belly, tell me what you were saying. Did you want to get out of the seltec?’ Beron jabbed again. ‘Eh?’
Landen looked around. There was a good tree with a wide trunk where he might put his back . . .
‘I told him the rules don’t do justice to your fighting style.’
Beron’s eyes narrowed. ‘What?’
‘If Emid wanted to know what a warrior you are, he should hold a seltec where you could be matched with boys younger and weaker than you.’
Landen wondered why he was talking at all. With Beron, it was best to say nothing. He was so tired of being bullied, but Beron could do real damage with his fists.
Out of the corner of his eye, Landen caught the change on some of the younger boys’ faces. Maybe now they’d stop pretending Beron was mighty and brave.
Beron’s heavy fist sent Landen to his knees. No time to get to the tree. Blows dropped on his head like rocks. Landen curled over, arms protecting his head.
Eric Aldon sauntered through the trees towards the barracks, idly chopping branches with his fist as he went. He didn’t feel easy in his mind. Up until a few weeks ago, he’d known exactly what life was. It was always the same: getting up early, scrambling into his clothes, eating breakfast with the other boys in the noisy hall lined with benches – spending the day practising arts of war, coaching youngsters, playing games; preparing for the day when he took his place in the fighting force of Archeld. That day was less than a year away for him. He was seventeen: tall and strong and a credit to his trainers.
During his years in the barracks, there had been rivalries: mini-wars between ever-changing factions of boys. Alliances formed, were broken, formed again. Friends became friendly enemies; enemies turned into wary friends. Some boys he genuinely liked; he and Phillt were almost always on the same side when they could be; and young Zeon tagged them whenever they let him. There were those he disliked – Beron chief among them. But Emid had drummed into all the boys that they were linked indivisibly by the most important of bonds: they served Archeld; King Kareed, Queen Dreea and Princess Torina. On the battlefield, they would be brother soldiers, loyal to each other, with animosities forgotten.