Sedition: The Sedition, #1

By A.J. Maguire

War was coming. Years of conspiring with his brother, of hunting for his lost mother, and war was finally coming. With options and allies depleting, Nelek finds that his newest and brashest bodyguard, Trenna Croften, could be the key to everything he's been fighting for

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597052283

A.J. Maguire

A.J. (Aimee Jean) Maguire is a science fiction junky and an outdoors enthusiast. She loves stories in all shapes and sizes; which means she reads a lot, watches a great deal of movies, and allows herself to be consumed by select television shows. A devoted parent, she believes her son is the greatest gift of her life and enjoys sharing all of her geekery with him. She graduated with honors from Northwest Nazarene University with her BA in Christian Ministries. Maguire has been weaving stories since she was very young and even confesses to having carried 3x5 cards in her cargo pockets while in the military just in case inspiration hit her away from the computer. Her writing runs the gamut from historical fiction to science fiction and she fully intends to be telling stories long into her old age.

Book preview

Dedication

For Hazen

One

METAL GRATED ON METAL, grinding as the two swords separated and slipped away from each other. Trenna felt the scrape through her saber, humming past the hilt and into her palm. For a moment she focused on the familiar leather grip as it stuck to her hand, distracting her from the fight, and wondered which blacksmith had managed to make her opponent’s sword. It was a shoddy piece of work, what with the miniscule, pitted bumps she’d felt during the press and grind of their two blades. Trenna blinked hard, swiping a forearm over her eyes as she retook position and peered over at her opponent. The large, burly man slid out of focus once... twice... and again before she shook her head to clear it.

Too much damn mead, she thought and then, Why am I dueling this man again?

The crowd cheered as the man raised his arms to rally support to his cause. He had an arrogant, irritating laugh, and his beard—black and not well trimmed—held the remnants of his half-eaten dinner in it. Then she remembered. He’d said only whores wore pants. Normally she would not have taken offense to such an ignorant comment. Very few whores wore pants, after all. But in this instance the bearded irritant had also slapped her backside and groped her. Thus, she found herself in a duel.

It was a half-drunk and fairly sloppy duel, but she hadn’t lost yet.

C’mon, Tren! I got five silver on you!

Squinting at the newest voice in the crowd she caught the sight of her black-haired blood brother Brockley Croften. The flash of sapphire and silver indicated to her that he was still in uniform. Giving him a grin and a roguish wink, she barely deflected the thrust her opponent sent to her mid-section. She was aware of the nearness of a table as she slid to the left and pulled her body into a tight circle. The man swung again, his sword making a sloppy arch to the left, and she stepped back, bumping her hip into the table she had just tried to avoid. Hearing Brockley’s verbal wince, she forced herself to concentrate a bit more.

Her body was tiring, the aftereffects of too many flagons of mead blurring the movements in her head. She needed to end this and quickly.

The man came again, body feinting to her left, though she knew by the tenseness of his shoulders he would go right. Her saber parried his sword, sliding down the length of the crude blade as her free hand checked the man’s elbow. The movement forced him to lay the whole of his left side open for her attack. In the blur of the moment and quite possibly on account of the mead she’d just consumed, Trenna thought about asking who his blacksmith was, just to be certain she never solicited them. But then she heard the unified gasp from the crowd, felt the anticipation that had built during the fight, and opted to just end it. With a quick, easy slash, she cut him at his left thigh. He’d limp for a bit, but he could blame it on a fall come morning.

The crowd burst into various states of approval and disapproval. Trenna nodded to the nameless, aggravating man, wiping her blade clean with the hem of her shirt before sheathing it. As the crowd dispersed into their pockets of friends and meetings, she made her way to Brockley, rubbing her temple and swaying. Brockley chuckled, grabbing her elbow with one hand and leading her to a secluded corner where she collapsed into a chair.

What happened this time? Brock asked with a laugh. Did he wink at you or something?

Trenna rested her head against the back wall, closing her eyes while she caught her breath. Man grabbed me. Damn fool will think better of women in trousers next time.

He grabbed you? Brock’s smile faltered a bit. Exactly where?

Does it matter, Broccoli? She peered at him through a hazy blur of eyelashes. I won. He lost. There need be no further recourse for his actions.

He scowled at the nickname. If you were anyone else, I would call you out for that.

She grinned in response. I suppose you’re off duty now. Care to have a drink?

Among other things. I haven’t eaten all day, and I think my body may mutiny if I don’t get something edible soon.

The food here is hardly edible, Brock. She pressed her fingers to her temple again. My head is going to hurt something fierce in the morning.

So stop drinking.

She snorted an incredulous laugh at him.

They were briefly interrupted by the arrival of Brock’s food. Brock paid the servant and slid a goblet her direction before turning his attention to his stew. The consistency of her blood brother gave her comfort. Every day he went about his duties as a royal guard, practicing in the early mornings before taking to his rounds. If he was lucky, he would grab a bite to eat just after practice, but more often than not he skipped the meal and was thus starving come the end of his shift. Trenna smiled at him, taking the proffered goblet and sniffing at it.

Water.

She raised an eyebrow. He caught her look and shook his head, dunking a piece of bread into the heady beef stock before shoving it in his mouth. You’ve already been in one duel tonight, Tren, he said around the mouthful. Take my advice and drink the water.

Grunting, she obliged him. Despite her preferences in the matter, the water slid cool and welcome down her throat. With a deep sigh, she allowed herself to relax in the chair, letting the room come back into focus. Practical, almost rudimentary, the Soldiers’ Hall filled her with a comfortable sort of warmth. She didn’t have to recognize everyone in the room to feel welcome with the many braziers lining the walls. Even the scents of the kitchen felt like a salve, drifting onions and roasted things and garlic so thick it obscured the general stink of several soldiers who hadn’t bathed in weeks. She became aware of her former opponent making some sort of comment from across the room. His leg had been tended in the brief moments after the duel by means of a scarf tied efficiently over the wound. She hadn’t cut him that deeply, or she hadn’t meant to if it had gone deeper than she’d planned.

It was a lucky hit, she heard him say.

Her left hand fell to her hilt, resting there in a comfortable manner. Gods, he was irritating. He faltered when he noticed her attention on him, flushed a furious color, and turned his back on her to continue his complaints at a lower tone. Brock had often told her the ambidexterity she possessed was a curse as well as a gift since it had a tendency to urge men into battle with her—men who wanted to prove that she wore them only for show, and it seemed he was right.

He would know, too. They’d both gone into training for the Garrison at the same time, but Trenna’s excessive nature towards drink had held her out of the ranks. She wasn’t likely to join anytime soon either, which was just as well. There were things moving in the undercurrent of the castle, and she didn’t want to be recruited into a fight unless she knew what it was about.

Sir Dalton wanted to know if you had been propositioned by the Watch again, Brock mentioned around another mouthful.

Trenna laughed, shaking her head. No. Nor do I suspect they will try again. She eyed him, So rest assured, brother.

He lifted his hands in surrender. It wasn’t me this time, truly. The captain is just very unsure of where his allies are these days.

It’s no wonder, too. The higher you get in the chain of power, the fewer people you have to rely on.

That’s cynical.

That’s honest. Trenna sighed and drank her water again.

I think he’s still chafing a bit from your rejection. Brock hid a mischievous grin behind his bowl.

I did not reject him, she countered, a familiar tickle gripping her stomach at the sudden memories. There was a flash in her mind, Dalton’s mouth hot and heavy on her own, his hands sliding down her back, caressing her with an urgency—He knew when we started that... that...

Relationship?

It was not a relationship. It was an agreement. Her face was fully flushed by now. And anyway, he knew when we started it that I was not the courting type.

Of course he did.

Damn right he did.

Marriage and relationships are too complicated for the likes of you, Brock ended with a quirky smile. Guess I’m lucky to have caught you before you understood that about yourself.

You didn’t catch me, she huffed. We made an agreement.

She didn’t want to think about Dalton anymore. Scowling at her water, she was about to signal a servant for mead when the doors opened and four watchmen stepped into the room. Rolling her eyes, she sat back in the chair, resting her left foot on her knee. She gave Brock a warning glance; he barely nodded his response, keeping his back turned to the new entries. She tapped her finger against her goblet four times, signaling to him the number of watchmen entering, and Brock smirked at her, dry and without humor.

Trenna turned her attention back to the watchmen, whose presence had put an abrupt end to the normal revelry and laughter that resounded through the Soldiers’ Hall. Two of them she recognized; the other two were mere deputies. The towering hulk of man commanding the entryway was Riggs, the highest lieutenant of the Watch. He’d been involved in a brawl just the week before, resulting in the leg splint and crutch he now grudgingly tolerated. Years before, Riggs had lost his eye in an interrogation attempt down in the prisons, which made him in Trenna’s standards the one-eyed limping giant of Kiavana. Aside from the missing eye and the massive leg splint, Riggs might have been considered a handsome man, if he ever quit scowling long enough to take a joke. Dark hair, traditionally cut short, though Trenna was prone to think that was a strategic device rather than a style—you couldn’t yank hair that short. Still, it was an appealing chestnut color that matched his eyes—well, eye.

So, in essence—if one could look past the missing anatomy and the great scowl—he was tall, dark, and handsome.

She took a drink of her water.

The other watchman was Halsey, quite possibly the ugliest man she had ever met, both in appearance and in spirit. His hair was more butchered than cut, a pale urine yellow in color that did absolutely nothing to hide the mass of freckles around his body. She only assumed it was a whole-body plague since she had never and would never see the man in the nude. What clued her in on it, however, was that the large, brownish lesions could be seen through the paleness of his hair and down his neck. His jaw was squared and large, jutting out from his face, and the man’s features did nothing to help his appearance. His nose was bent, tugging off to the left side slightly and making his mouth appear to be in the wrong place.

I heard there was a disturbance, Riggs announced gruffly.

Nothing but a fair duel, Squire, one of the servants answered.

Trenna took the moment to view her opponent across the room. They locked eyes, both nodding to each other in silent agreement. Neither would speak on it, not to the Watch. It didn’t matter if the duel had been fair and honorable; the Watch would see them both incarcerated for the night. It wouldn’t help her that she was sister to a member of the Garrison, either.

Politics required the existence of both the Royal Garrison and the Watch, one group to safeguard the royalty of Kiavana and the other to maintain justice of the castle. In normal cases, the two could work together quite easily, but in Kiavana nothing was ever normal. Here the two societies were bitter rivals on the main basis of their employers. The Royal Garrison was sponsored, trained, and ultimately led by Prince Nelek, while the Watch was loyal to King Goddard alone. It was the most blatant and irreconcilable split in the castle since the king and his sons hated each other with a passion, though no one could really specify why.

Or, that wasn’t quite true. She was certain that Nelek, Brenson, or King Goddard could specify the hows and the whys of the animosity that swirled among them. They just chose not to.

With a slight frown, she noted Riggs’ attention on her. He hesitated, noticing her brother in full uniform at the same table, but he still ambled his way to her, half-dragging his left leg behind him. Faced with no other option, she raised her hand in greeting and gave the man a bland, if tolerant, smile. Nice night, Squire.

I should have suspected you were back in the castle. Riggs didn’t sit down, just leaned on the crutch, narrowing his eye on her. When did you get back?

This morning. She shrugged, glancing at Brock, who wiped his mouth on a kerchief.

Do you know anything about this duel? Halsey interrupted, stepping closer to the table.

Even his voice was ugly, a tight, nasal sound.

Come on now, I just get back from Elysees Inn— she paused to explain to Halsey, since she was certain the man had never stepped foot outside the castle, that’s a day and a half’s ride from here—and you think the first thing on my agenda is to brawl with the locals? She tisked under her breath. I thought we were friends.

You decided you didn’t want to be friends, Halsey snapped.

No. Trenna smirked up at them. No, I decided I didn’t want to be in the Watch.

Are you saying the Watch is below you? Halsey took another step closer.

Brock leaned back in his chair, glancing up at the two watchmen with slight annoyance. She doesn’t want to join the Garrison either, and you don’t see me getting up in arms about it.

Riggs grunted, keeping his gaze on Trenna. How long you planning on staying in the castle this time?

She smiled, grateful that Riggs was not one of those watchmen who pecked at the rivalry between the two martial factions. He believed in the Watch, to his very bones, but it was not something he would growl about unless properly provoked. Oh, I hadn’t decided yet, she admitted. With a wink she asked, Why? You plan on tempting me to hang around a bit longer this time?

The ever-present scowl twisted a bit, contorting into something that might have been a smile. There was no friction between them, only a distant respect that neither would cross. She was probably the only one alive with the gall to tease him, and she had a feeling deep down that he enjoyed it. As much as he grimaced and grunted at her presence in the castle, he knew she was on the fair side of things, just like she knew he couldn’t give a damn about who employed the Watch. His job, as he had so poetically put it some four years ago, was to take care of the people. Everything else was second.

Riggs wouldn’t touch something after a dog had its way with it. Halsey spit on the table.

Brock rose from his chair, hand on his hilt, before Halsey could blink.

Riggs cuffed Halsey upside the head. Wait for me outside.

What? Halsey rubbed the back of his head, glowering down at her.

I think the man should apologize, Watchman. Brock’s voice was low and cool.

Riggs grimaced, but he nodded agreement. Poking a large, gruff finger into the man’s chest he barked, Apologize.

For what? Halsey’s indignant face beamed like a red currant. "I wasn’t calling her anything... though quite a few terms come to mind."

Indeed. Sir Dalton’s voice came from the doorway. I believe you were accusing her of bestiality. Although it’s not technically name-calling, it is still rude.

She had to lean in her seat to peek around Riggs. Dalton looked resplendent in his captain’s garb, the same sapphire and silver adorning Brock, only more refined and with an added waist sash the color of honey in the sun dangling gallantly at his left thigh. His skin was bronzed and flushed, which meant he had been standing there for the whole of their conversation. Wincing sympathetically, she straightened and shook her head at Halsey. Looks like the dog’s come in, Watchman. Have any more charming additions to stuff in your mouth?

At Dalton’s voice, Halsey’s face had become scarlet, his whole body tensed and startled. His mouth worked heavily, trying to emit some sound, but none came.

Apologize to both of them, you stupid twit, Riggs growled. Turning he nodded toward Dalton. Captain. Then he stormed out the door. The two deputies, looking rather frightened and lost without their lieutenant, scurried out after him, leaving Halsey alone to face his mistake.

Sir Dalton walked to the bar, where the tender already had a goblet waiting for him. He paid for the drink and then sauntered over to stand beside Brockley. The entire Soldiers’ Hall watched the proceedings with rapture, which in itself was rude. She didn’t care for her private life being made gossip, but she had a feeling it was all open now. First the duel, which in retrospect she should have won sooner, then the whole Watch offer being made known because of Halsey’s stupid mouth, and finally the insult that linked her with Sir Dalton. Trenna frowned, watching the stupefied man try to form an apology, and wondered if she was sober enough for another duel.

I apologize, miss. Halsey ground the words out through his teeth.

Her left index finger grazed the hilt of her saber. He was already ugly, so missing teeth wouldn’t hurt his chances with the ladies, but she forced herself to remain in her seat. She nodded, glancing at Brock. If she fought a watchman, things would be bad. The Garrison would try to do something, and the king would have a few of them arrested, which he loved to do from time to time anyway—helped remind his eldest son who was in charge, or something like that.

Sir Dalton, I apologize for referring to you as a dog, came the last of the apology.

In response, Dalton began tugging off his right glove. The movement caused an intake of breath through the entire hall. Even Trenna blinked her surprise, trying to read Dalton’s face. Alarm bells rang in her head. If Dalton still harbored feelings for her, he wouldn’t hesitate to duel the man to the death. Clenching her teeth, she tried to meet Dalton’s eyes, but the smoky-gray orbs remained fastened on Halsey’s face.

As the silence droned on in the hall, with Dalton almost finished removing his glove, Trenna stood abruptly, slamming her hand palm-down onto the flat of the table. The impact reverberated through her arm, stung her fingers, and made everyone in the room jump. I think the good lieutenant is waiting for you outside, Watchman, she said.

Realizing she had just rescued him from the challenge, Halsey blushed, bobbing his head and murmuring something to the effect of, Of course, before half running through the door. He tripped slightly on his feet, head smacking into the oak door before he could open it and escape into the night.

The room erupted with laughter.

With a heavy sigh, she turned to face Dalton. The knight was watching her, cautious and angry at the same time. You shouldn’t have spared him, he said.

I shouldn’t have goaded him either.

He rose to it, Tren. It was a slight on both of us.

Most of the hall had returned to normal, murmuring and laughing, but a few still strained to hear their conversation. Trenna straightened, eyeing Dalton with much the same caution he presented to her. She’d left four months ago because of him, wanting to be sure he understood there could be no further ties between them. It wasn’t his fault, poor man. She just wasn’t the courting type, but no matter how hard she tried to explain this, the knight had not listened. He’d bought her a ring—a very important kind of ring—and had tried to present it to her in a private little picnic he had quite painstakingly created. In response, she had leapt up and run away, straight to the stables, where she convinced Sir Modig to rent her a horse on short notice.

Sir Dalton. She exhaled through her teeth. Words cannot slight your honor. In your position as captain of the Garrison, you should know this much. The Watch say far worse things out of earshot.

Brock shifted on his feet, caught between them and obviously uncomfortable. I’m late to find Adelyte, he said.

Go on, Broccoli. She smiled at her brother. Find your promised wife and enjoy your evening. Winking at him, she promised, I’ll not duel again tonight.

Flashing a brief smile, Brock nodded once to her, then bowed to Sir Dalton. If you’ll excuse me, sir.

Dalton nodded to Brock in return and watched him leave. Feeling the discreet, yet frequent glances of the hall’s occupants, Trenna forced a smile. Care for a walk, sir? I’m afraid I’ve had enough of crowds for one night.

The knight appeared relieved at her suggestion, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly under the richly embroidered doublet. She had a brief memory of those shoulders, bared and glowing in the candlelight of her private room, but she shook it off as she began leading them out the door and into the courtyard. Dalton remained close but not so close as to impart more than friendship and common ground to the onlookers who watched them leave.

Night had fallen, draping the courtyard with its still and blinding presence. Only the glint of torches lining the curtain wall gave them clues as to where they were. Not that they needed them—they had both lived in or around Kiavana Fortress long enough to know the basic layout of the place. Trenna inhaled the cool, damp scent of encroaching rain and pursed her lips in annoyance—she hated rain. She could stand any weather except rain. Snow, heat, hail, it didn’t matter, but when she was drenched, she was truly agitated. Dalton caught her expression, chuckling because he understood her.

The thought of someone other than her brother knowing her that well unnerved her, and she rolled her shoulder before gesturing to the gatehouse. Several years ago, Brock had noticed this nervous tick of hers. He said it was like she was testing her sword arm, trying to make sure it was still able and ready should she be in danger. If Dalton knew about that, he didn’t make any comment as they marched through the dark and to the large, stone gatehouse.

Sir Culbert thinks he can recruit you into the Watch, he mentioned.

Really? And why is that?

The gatehouse was separated into two parts. First the front entryway, which was equipped with two portcullises—both raised at present—and an enormous oak drawbridge that had never been raised in the years Trenna had roamed through Kiavana. Behind the front entryway were the covered entrances leading to the flanking circular towers. Not caring to be disturbed in the middle of the conversation she knew was coming, Trenna led them up the eastern tower.

He believes you choose not to join the Garrison because of the relationship we had. Dalton followed her up the spiral staircase and into the first solar.

The torches and braziers were lit, heating the bare room in a warm, golden glow. Making her way to an arrow slit deep in the wall of the tower, she propped against the stone and crossed her ankles. For the moment she’d let the mention of a relationship slide, concentrating instead on the tense lines of worry that etched the man’s face. He truly was afraid he had pushed her out of the Garrison.

You know better than that, Dalty.

He relaxed further at the use of his nickname. He really was the most handsome specimen. Soft, golden hair, feather light around his head and well trimmed in his goatee, and smooth yet firm features. His eyes had always reminded her of the smoke that billows from chimney tops, turbulent and intense. She lowered her gaze, trying to fight off the constant flash of memories as they barraged her. His face was not the only thing beautiful about him. Every piece of his body was solid, firm after years of relentless practice.

In the awkward silence that stretched between them, she wondered again at why the man had even taken notice of her. She wasn’t exactly the most beautiful woman in Kiavana. She was short, wiry, and limber, with no real care as to the state of her dress.

Then why do you not join us? he asked, breaking the silence.

It’s complicated, she said, crossing her arms.

Outside it began to rain, pattering lightly against the ground. Trenna shook her head, wondering when he would get to the heart of the matter. He was not here because he wanted to recruit her, though that would undoubtedly be a bonus in the conversation. There were only a select few swordsmen in the castle who did not reside in either the Watch or the Garrison, and most of them were knights. Sir Lucias was bodyguard to Prince Nelek, which seemed to suggest the man was in the Garrison. Likewise, Sir Faolan was bodyguard to Prince Brenson. The only bodyguard who could trace his training back to the Watch was Sir Varik, bodyguard to the king, and that just made sense in the scheme of things.

Sir Culbert should know that I will not take a uniform in direct opposition to my brother, she said at length. And you should know that I will not take a uniform at all. I am not made for such guidelines and restrictions.

He gave her a slight smile, lowering his gaze to the floor. Indeed, I would know best how you cannot conform or be molded.

Hearing the hurt in his voice, she bit her lower lip. I am sorry for the pain I caused you.

It is not entirely your fault. Dalton heaved a great sigh. I was ready for something more and tried to force you into it.

Should have known better, she teased.

He chuckled, shaking his head ruefully. Indeed. He paused, unsure. I suppose this means the end of our... agreement, as you put it.

She gave him a silent nod, suddenly sad at the loss of him. This was why she did not have relationships, she reminded herself. They got complicated, emotional, and unpredictable. Why she had ever taken up with Sir Dalton she would never know. The man needed someone he could protect, someone who would flutter her eyes at him and dance beside him. If she had been fool enough to marry him, he would have discovered this soon enough.

Bringing himself to his full height, Dalton took the four steps to her, standing imposing and warm and solid against the darkness of the tower. Trenna met his eyes and drew in a breath. He was not happy with the arrangement, she knew, but neither would he try to force her again. Sliding his hand behind her neck, he brought his mouth to hers in one smooth, inexorable motion. It was drugging, the way his lips worked over hers, the soft scratch of his goatee against her face and the sudden, silky warmth of his tongue invading her senses.

He was controlled, not touching her beyond where his hand held her neck prisoner. The intent of the kiss was subdued, almost quiet in comparison with the raking, passionate roaming his mouth had done on her before. It was saying goodbye.

When he finally released her, breathing ragged and unsteady, he stepped away. With a proper and silent bow, he slipped out the door. Trenna stood there, letting the silence of his departure lay heavy on the room, staring at the door. For one brief, insane moment she almost called him back. How would it be? To be wife of Sir Dalton, Captain of the Garrison? He was such a composed man in public, but in private he held such a powerful lack of control she’d been drawn to him without much choice.

No, she thought. She was right in the beginning. Dalton enjoyed her company, her friendship, and her neutrality. In the end, she would drive him mad, being gone from the castle with her wanderings, charging into duels without much forethought. Dalton’s nature was to protect, to safeguard, and even Trenna knew her reckless behavior would land her in trouble some day. It would kill him.

She sighed, turning to peer through the arrow loop.

Sometimes she hated being right.

Two

There was a marred , black hill dead center of the clearing. For a hundred yards in every direction, nothing would grow there, as though nature itself held vigil over the tragic events that had happened. Nelek crouched near the hill, his mind rebuilding what once stood there, hunting for some clue he had missed. Thick walls, square towers, battlements, and crenellations, the Temple of the Ebony Blade had been created with battle in mind, almost as formidable as Fortress Kiavana. Where he was positioned, the gatehouse would have been a mere eight steps away.

If, of course, the Temple still existed.

Expelling a harsh breath through his teeth, Nelek straightened to his feet. Night was coming fast, reminding him in more ways than one that he was running out of time. He tried to focus on his training, on the years he had spent playing and roaming through the Temple. But in his mind’s eye, there was only the crescent shape of King Goddard’s army bearing down on the Temple, restless and angry and ready for battle. His teacher, Sir Bedvar, had been outside the gates attempting to parlay with the mass of soldiers.

Nelek’s eyes cast to the ground three feet away. Bedvar had fallen there.

He closed his eyes, mortal combat ringing harsh through his memory, flashes of men falling, fires starting, the sharp rattle of blades... and then he caught it. That moment when everything had slowed down to a surreal, panicked pace and he had seen clearly even at his youthful age. During the dizzying rush through the Temple corridors, he had seen one thing, one oddity that pushed past the shock of having just seen his mentor fall: the small stone statue of Loran, god of war. In the chaos of battle, Nelek and his younger brother, Brenson, had been smuggled out of the Temple, but that one vision was crisp. He knew the army had broken through the Temple gatehouse because they’d been beating at the inner sanctuary doors just before the secret passage was revealed to them. He knew there had been fire because he could still smell it leaking through the cracks in the masonry. And he knew the army had not found the Ebony Blade.

He knew that because the Temple was gone. Almost as soon as they had stepped foot outside of the fortress, it had disappeared, taking Templar and soldiers with it. More importantly, taking the cursed sword with it. King Goddard responded by setting fire to every hint of the Templar, piling uniforms and bodies into the center of this clearing until all traces of the seditious uprising were gone. Only it wasn’t all gone. Whatever magic had taken the Temple created this blackened sepulcher, reminding the people of the queen and her men.

His eye twitched at the thought of his mother. She’d disappeared just before the attack on the Temple. Some rumors said the Eldur people rescued her; others said she simply left. He didn’t much believe any of those. For one, his mother would not have left her children behind. As far as he could remember, she was kind and affectionate to him. And, given what he understood of the race his mother had come from, if the Eldur people had come to her rescue, they would have laid waste to Kiavana.

The rumor that Nelek did believe was possibly the most unpopular. Because his mother was not human but Eldur, her marriage to King Goddard had magic in it as well. The oaths that bound them as husband and wife bound them in fate, making it so that if one of them died, then so would the other. It only made sense that his father would take her, hide her away someplace secure where she wouldn’t be harmed.

Which was why Nelek stood there, gazing at the hillock of death, trying to find the Ebony Blade. It was the only sword that could cut his father down and spare his mother’s life, and it was somewhere nearby. He could feel it like a deep vibration in his bones, calling out to him.

It grows dark, Sire, Sir Lucias called from behind him.

I am aware of the time, sir.

The knight moved to stand beside him. Any progress this time?

Nelek grunted his response, and Lucias responded in kind. They stood in silence then as Nelek considered the space before them. He could remember that he and Brenson had been sparring that day. He’d beaten his brother, as per usual. Brenson was not as inclined to swordplay as Nelek. Sir Bedvar had interrupted their sparring with the customary drills of the Templar, going through the virtues of a swordsman. Respect first of all because without it one could not understand Honor. Honor, Valor, and Temperance next, but all of it hinged on Respect.

Nelek squinted into the dying light of