The Hand That Steers The Kingdom – Part 19
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There wasn’t any frost on the ground the morning it happened. There was a dusting of snow The thin crystals dampened the footsteps of the men that snuck into the camp. When It was over, and they’d done what they were paid to do, the ground was mud and the camp smelled of iron and fire. Just like that, Freya was gone. The rebellion had been betrayed. Anfir was collecting those that remained. Sarai was beating her frustrations out in the forges. Freya was healing the ones she could, her strange magic sending shivers down people’s spines when it writhed under her skin. Connor spent the rest of the night hauling burnt and ruined tents out of the way and digging graves for those that didn’t survive.
Petya was… Conflicted. The soldiers had come out of nowhere, their blue uniforms darkened with earth, camouflaged against the dark trees. It hadn’t been a battalion that marched on their camp, just a small task force. They moved silently in the early morning when no one but the tired night watch was awake. In a single morning, Petya’s world, his home, had been upturned for a second time. Now the camp was half in ruin, half in chaos, and Tristan was missing. Petya hadn’t known he’d miss her this much.
A week later, they’d moved; the healthy had been sent to other rebel camps, the wounded had been dispersed to the homes of various noble allies. Anfir finally had his answer to how the Doerman’s had known where to find them. A wash woman had been caught with a token of the rebellion. She’d died after hours of torture that hadn’t ended when she’d finally revealed where the messages traveled to. Priscilla had been a fine agent, with a keen eye for information. He would miss her wry comments in their correspondence. Anfir ordered some men to take her body off the gates of the keep where it had been hung. She deserved that much.
Freya had taken to hanging around his office. For three days her hands had shaken, weak after spending so much magic on stitching wounds and reshaping shattered bones and burnt skin. Now she paced restlessly. In the corner her fiancé and fellow rebel, Aston, leaned against a tent pole.
“I’m going after them,” she declared. Anfir didn’t look up from his report.
“You’re a mage,” he said tiredly. “And a healer at that. They’ll see you from miles away.”
“I’ll take Aston then.” She waved at the fiancé, who shrugged like they’d just decided to go for a stroll.
“No.”
“We need her back,” Freya snapped. Anfir grimaced, guilt eating at him.
“I want her back too,” he said tightly. “But we can’t take risks without thinking them through.”
Of course he wanted to storm the keep Tristan had been taken to and bring her back. The only issue was that the Doerman king’s entourage had been seen headed there as well. The fortress would be heavily guarded. Anfir sighed. They didn’t have the manpower available right now to pull off such a risqué attack.
“I need to plan some more. Then we can—”
“It’ll be too late by the time you finish planning!”
Aston cleared his throat, making a noise for the first time since entering the tent.
“We have a little mouse at the door,” he said. “Try not to frighten him away with your shouting.” A surge of power flared from Anfir’s hand and the flap of the door opened to reveal Petya.
“I want to help,” he shouted before anyone could say anything else. His fingers dug into the grainy wood of his spear, the one the princess had made him train with.
Anfir sighed. “That’s three mages. We don’t even have a half-baked plan for you—”
“I have a plan.”
“Then, by all means,” a fifth voice interrupted from the doorway. Connor emerged, Sarai at his elbow, looking mutinous. Connor settled by Aston, nodding, one soldier to another, and crossed his arms. “Let’s hear it.”
Tristan couldn’t feel her arms anymore. After the attack, she’d woken up with her wrists and ankles bound tightly in the back of an uncovered wagon on the path to somewhere. A week on the road and she’d been dropped into a room at a keep and not allowed out. They hadn’t taken her to a dungeon like she’d thought they would. Instead, she was escorted to a drab room, one that would have likely belonged to the keep’s priest, priestess, or servant. The closet-sized space was bare of anything but a cot and a bowl of water for washing.
At first, she’d been terrified, yelling for help and stemming tears of fear and rage. Now Tristan tried to dredge up some fear, some emotion, but she was numb. She shuffled around the room, wishing she could see out of the window placed just out of reach. Instead, she was reduced to counting bricks to pass the time.
“You’ll be collected later tonight,” a gruff voice announced. The soldier who’d put her in her prison opened the door and announced, he hadn’t gone far these past three days, but he never spoke much. “The king has arrived. Behave and you might survive.” With that cheerful advice, he left, slamming the door, and resigning Tristan to the dim light provided by the window. Tristan’s heart began to stir again with anxiety.
It was strange how her current situation was so similar, yet different to what had happened with Mikki. Back then, she’d been too small to understand what was going on. She’d been desperately hoping for a rescue. Now, she knew exactly what was going on, and every thought of an escape was tossed away, her hope too threadbare to hold it. It felt like an end. So, she waited.
When the light from the window softened to gold, someone knocked. Tristan jerked up, not sure when she’d fallen asleep. A mousy girl peeked into the door, the same soldier by her side.
“I’m to take you to his Majesty,” she said. The anxiety deepened, fear taking its place. Tristan refused to let it show.
“Alright then,” she said, forcing her voice not to shake. The soldier reached for her hands. “I’m not going to run,” she hissed, jerking away from the gloved fingers. For an instant, she thought she saw respect on his face, before it vanished into a neutral frown.
“Come,” the girl said, though it was more of a question than a demand. They moved down the hall in silence. Tristan watched servants shuffle by, looking at the ground, the wall, anywhere besides her. The Doerman soldiers that milled around pointed or smirked. A very select few looked sad or shocked. Tristan figured she was younger than what they’d expected. Still, she kept her head high and marched. A closed door at the end of the hall loomed in front of them. Tristan wondered if that was where they were headed. As it grew closer and the girl beside her became more agitated, she figured that was exactly where they were headed.
The sound of voices slipped out from under the heavy oak, pitched low enough that she couldn’t make out any words. The door was opened and Tristan walked toward it, limping a little where her wounds pulled. The door was shut behind her.
The room she’d been escorted to was large and ornate, an antechamber that probably led to the quarters fit for a king. The shiny marble of the floor spoke of wealth, as did the gilded chandelier that hovered over the entire area. Velvet and embroidered couches in blues and greens were settled around a spacious rug, but none of them were occupied. It almost looked like no one was there.
“You don’t look like a monster…” Tristan whirled around, only to find herself face-to-face with a young boy, barely six if she had to guess, dressed in silks and wearing a crown.
“Who are you?” she gasped. The boy grinned, gap toothed and wide.
“I’m the king,” he explained, as if he actually was. “I told Captain Pikkif to bring me the monster he caught.” He wrinkled his nose. “I guess they caught you, though.” Tristan gaped like a fish, too startled to say anything at all.
“Dearest,” a woman’s voice interrupts. “Perhaps you should stay away from her. She is a dangerous criminal after all.” The woman that emerged was only a few years younger than Sarai, but there was a shrewdness in her gaze, so at odds with her deep blue gown and the pearls held against her pale throat.
“So, she is a monster?” The question was offhand, as if the child met monsters every day and wasn’t impressed by them. The woman laughed, her gaze cool as it ran over Tristan, sending ice into her gut.
“Yes, my King,” she said. “Just another monster, like that Priscilla woman Captain Pikkif had to get rid of.” Tristan gasped, so he really was the king. But how? There’d been no news of the old king’s passing. She’d have been dancing in the streets if there had been. Anfir would have heard something! Whatever had happened had been kept too quiet to be natural. The woman, his mother she assumed, smirked while Tristan put the pieces together. “Why don’t you let me take care of her for you?” The small king nodded, obviously tired of the proceedings, and wandered off to continue playing with the toys piled in the corner of the sitting room.
“You know, Princess,” the woman said, sinking into a couch gracefully. “My husband was actually afraid of your little band of troublemakers.” Tristan fumed at that description.
“He was right to be,” she snapped. One elegant brow raised at her.
“And yet here you stand in front of me, while he rots in exile.” The smirk grew chillier. Tristan hadn’t thought it was possible. “When he started rambling about a rebellion, I told the council he was weak. Then he started obsessing over it. Even they could tell that there was nothing to be gained from keeping him around. He was old, growing senile. My son is young, he’ll grow into the perfect king.” Something clicked.
“You mean he’ll be your puppet,” Tristan spat. The queen hummed.
“Just until he’s trained properly. It’s not as if you’re much different.” The words hit Tristan like a punch in the gut, but she didn’t have time to reply before the queen moved on. “Now, are you going to surrender this rebellion fantasy, or will I have to get rid of another ruler?”
Outside the keep, Anfir’s mouth was stretched in a thin line, his illusion keeping him hidden while he counted the obnoxious amount of guards prowling around.
“Are you sure about this?” he hissed at Petya. The boy nodded. He was shaking and sweating in the moonlight while magic swirled around his hands and poured into the earth. Before their eyes, a tunnel began to form.
“This is how me and Tia escaped the mage finders. You said this place has escape tunnels?” Anfir nodded. “Then all I have to do is find one and we’re in. There are old paths down here. Ancient ones they won’t bother with.” Anfir held his breath while Petya stretched his senses to the limits, feeling along the packed earth until his senses felt something. It was an old pathway, damp and filled with small cave-ins, but it lead right under the keep. He breathed a sigh of relief as his makeshift tunnel connected.
“I found one.”