King Callie: Callie's Saga, Book One (17 page)

“I missed you so much,” Eliya said, not caring for the audience.

“I have also missed you,” he replied, with a light accent, “More than the moon misses its stars on a cloudy night.” They kissed, and again surprised Caliandra with the depth and passion of it - especially considering they were in full view of her, as well as his servants. Eliya pushed lightly against him, separating their lips - against her chief desires, it seemed - and whispered something in her ear. Mas turned to Caliandra, not letting go of Eliya; Caliandra could see that Eliya didn’t want him to.

“Lady Caliandra,” Mas said, managing a polite smile. “I am sorry for your family’s losses.”

“Thank you, Prince Mas,” Caliandra said, with a solemn curtsy. “Your kind words are greatly appreciated.”

“Will I be seeing your mother?” Mas asked, curious. “I want to extend my sympathies to her as well.” Caliandra’s immediate response was one of hesitation, but finally, reluctantly, provided an answer.

“I’m afraid not,” she said, with a catch in her throat, and a polite smile. “Mother is keeping very busy, helping with the kingdom’s affairs until a new king is found. We rarely see her.”

Mas had no need to know the truth of why her mother was busy, or for what reason. “Ah,” he said, smiling sadly, “That may be for the best. One must not be a slave to melancholy.” Eliya squeezed his arm, and looked up at him. To Caliandra, it had seemed so long since her sister was happy; it had been weeks, but it felt like months.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” Eliya said, as she pecked a kiss on his broad cheek. “Shall we eat? You must be ravenous with hunger.”

“I am. But you…” He seemed unsure of what to say next, and the words danced on his tongue. “You are eating, yes?”

“We are,” Caliandra replied. “But it’s… it’s hard. I was more prepared for Father’s death than Valric’s, but to have one after the other… it’s difficult to feel anything but lost,” she said. “Everything feels emptier.”

Mas nodded. “Yes,” he said, “It is hard to face that. But you’ll be stronger for it. You both will.”

Eliya buried herself in Mas’s chest, and let herself be held. Caliandra stood off to the side, waiting and stewing in envy. Part of her wished she could be held like that, and missed Iaen for it – more than anything. She’d written him, against Eliya’s wishes. And Mae’s. And Janni’s. And against all manner of sense. She had others to turn to, but she felt… she needed that closeness they had. She missed it. She missed
him
. And worst of all, she knew he wouldn’t write back.

He’d barely sent anything of condolence; a brief letter of pity and well-wishes, and that was all. It infuriated her, and it stabbed at her too-raw heart – for all they had, and for all those long months together, he gave her so little. He’d cut her out of his life. Had she meant so little to him, and her losses so inconsequential, that she wasn’t worth a page? Caliandra knew it was a poor choice, but it was what her heart told her to do. She needed to, even though all hope of him coming back was gone. Even if he didn’t care for her, it was the act of a desperate heart wanting for love in the wrong place, and hoping that maybe – maybe – that love would be returned.

She thought of Darryn – the soldier. The handsome one.
Yom above, couldn’t he have been a prince, or a noble? Someone that I could have a chance at happiness with?
Even now, with her father dead, he’d have to take Kells’ position over to be close to her rank… and people would talk, as they always did. But something inside Caliandra cared far less about what the people thought; it told her they didn’t matter. That she should pursue him.

“Caliandra?” Mas asked, snapping her out of her thoughts. “Are you well?”

“No. Yes. Sorry,” Caliandra said, almost recovering from a daze. “I was far away… Let’s go inside then, shall we?”

“I’ll ask one of the maids to have food prepared,” Eliya said, but Mas held up a hand, and shook his head.

“Nonsense,” Mas told her. “I have brought your new maids, hired by my father’s chamberlain. They will learn your preferences, to better serve you when we are married. You,” he said, gesturing to the two female servants behind him - a young red-haired woman with cherub’s cheeks, and a tall, gaunt, dark-haired woman of dour countenance. “Let the kitchen staff know to prepare food promptly.”

They nodded, and sped past Mas, towards Caliandra; the red-haired maid approached her, and whispered low, into her ear. “Lady,” she said, in accented Barrish -
from Ariaci, in the service of the Kersikki? What a far path to take
, Caliandra wondered. “We do not know where the kitchen is.”

“Of course - I’ll show you,” Caliandra replied, in a low voice. “Please, come with me.”

The two servants split off towards the kitchen, and Caliandra with them - leaving Eliya and Mas behind to stroll at a leisurely pace.

When will I have such happiness?
Caliandra thought.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Caliandra walked through the halls at a feverish pace, but the maids had no trouble keeping up with her on the way to the kitchen. “The kitchen is at the end of this hall, and to the left,” she said, glancing over at the red-haired maid to her left. She was young, and freckled - a few years older than her, with scarlet hair, curled in knots. A girl of no more than twenty, Caliandra guessed.

“Do you like it here?” the red-haired girl asked, in accented Barrish. Caliandra almost dismissed it as a foolish question, but the girl asked it in such an innocent way, she found herself answering in greater detail than she intended.
An Ariaci accent, she thought.
Odd
.
Red hair isn’t seen down there, if ever.

“It’s a very nice castle,” Caliandra said. “It’s very old, and very safe. I’ve lived here my whole life… and it should be interesting to see who lives here, once the new King is chosen.”

“Who chooses Kings?” The girl seemed confused. “I did not think it was a decision.”

“Of course they have a say in it,” said the other maid, gruff and deep, in Kersikki. Her complexion was darker, matching her deep brown locks. “You think any man would be foolish enough to put his faith in an axe?” Caliandra stopped herself from reprimanding the girl. Even if Caliandra had never learned to speak Kersikki, the tone was enough to tell that the maid danced on the edge of insolence. She felt it better not to let them know.

“Here, our Kings are chosen through ritual. The King is the man who puts the Peacebringer axe back together - any normal man who attempts it will fail. When the King dies, it splits into two pieces, and the cycle begins again.” Caliandra said, to the red-haired maid,

“Oh,” the red-haired girl said. “So who tells it which man is the right king?”

“It just knows,” Caliandra replied.

“Like hell it does,” the other maid said, in Kersikki. She froze as Caliandra stopped walking, and stared her down.

“I don’t know what standards they hold you to back in Kersik, but you will not swear oaths while in our service. You will behave with respect for this castle and your position,” Caliandra snapped, in whip-like Kersikki. It was unlike her, and yet, she continued to speak. “Do you understand?”

“So sorry, Lady”, the dark-haired maid replied. “It won’t happen again.”

“It had better not,” Caliandra sternly replied. The maid curtsyed in apology, and then sank a couple paces back behind Caliandra. The red-haired maid chuckled to herself in spite of her scowling friend. Caliandra was too preoccupied with her profane maids and finding the kitchen to notice the dark sound of scraping steel behind her. Inside of seconds, she felt a hand cup her mouth, a blade at her throat, and two more hands acting in concert to pull her into the shadows.

“It will not,” the low-pitched voice whispered into her ear, in Barrish, as the knife pressed against her neck. “But you will be skipping dinner, Lady. Understand?”

Caliandra’s pulse quickened. She nodded. “Take us to the dungeon,” the voice said. “Now.” The knife stayed perfectly still as she breathed; she could feel the cold sharpness of it pinch against her flesh. And though the threat of the knife spiked her pulse, Caliandra recognized the opportunity.

“You want to kill him, then?” Caliandra asked, her voice pitched with fear. “Royth?” She heard no response from them at first, and wondered if she had guessed wrong.

“Yes,” the dark-haired one said.

“Let me help you,” Caliandra said. “I want nothing more than to see him die.” She felt the knife pull away from her neck, and took a relieved breath. Caliandra turned to see the maids; the red one wore a smirk. Caliandra wagered that it wasn’t often that they found someone willing to help. “Royth killed my brother. Avenge him for me.”

“Perhaps we can do you one better,” the red-haired maid said. The dark-haired one scowled at her. “Get us into the dungeon, and we’ll give you the killing stroke.”

Caliandra’s heart sang with dark joy. “We have a deal,” she said. “Follow me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“So I’ll be here for some time, then?” asked Royth. Kells heard no curiosity in his voice, or excitement; only relief. He wouldn’t have been surprised to know the Seer was expecting that outcome.

“You will,” Kells replied. “Your accommodations will be made more comfortable over time, if we deem it. But you will not hang, nor will you be tortured - unless I deem it necessary.” These were Sophine’s requests, and Kells was happy to oblige them. He had that much power over Royth - especially since the Seer had no idea how Valric died.

Royth paused. “And what would merit that necessity?” he asked.

“Urgency,” Kells said, curt, “Your visions, and any reasons surrounding them. Information about the Nest.”

“My visions are triggered by touch. Rarely do I wait around to receive them,” Royth answered back, gesturing with his shackled hands - pulling the chains taut with a snap. “Only once have they come to me otherwise. And that was when I was in immediate peril…”

“These are the rules you will live by,” Kells said, disinterested, “Unless you wish to be more cooperative.”
Like telling me about your little band of killers,
Kells thought. The sight of the bird branded into Royth’s skin brought a chill to Kells’ spine; some Barrish peasants thought the Nest were angry spirits - vengeful ghosts of the shadows that left only fresh-picked bones behind, like carrion. He knew they were still men, and women, but it did nothing to put him at ease. Angry spirits weren’t trained by the Erimeni; Sparrows often were.

Royth laughed. “With what? Telling you about the Nest? It must chafe her to know I’ve been so close to the King all these years, right under your noses.” His statement met with Kells’ scoffs.

“You’re here in chains, aren’t you?” Kells said, with a smirk. “None of those years matter anymore. You’ll die down here, Royth, and that will be all.”

“I’m here because I want to be,” Royth said. “Not because I’m forced to.” His previous words were defiant; but when he said
I want to be
, Kells heard some guilt in his voice. As if, perhaps, Royth thought he deserved it.

“So you’ve been in their service for twenty years, then?” Kells’ query only met with Royth’s silence. “Fine,” Kells said, brusquely, “Then it’s the hammer for you,” as he walked to the other room. There lay a simple war hammer, three feet in length, with a head that weighed quite a bit. It was not often necessary, but he found that men were more responsive to questioning with broken feet and hands.

“I thought you said I wouldn’t be tortured,” Royth called after him, his voice wavering.

“Unless I deemed it necessary,” he said, pulling the hammer up into his hands, grunting with the effort, “And I think it has become necessary.” It still had the lingering smell of dried blood on it. Satisfied, Kells turned around, and started walking back to Royth’s cell - only to find the Seer’s eyes to the ceiling, and wholly milk-white. Words came from his mouth, and at first, they made no sense; as Kells drew closer, he heard them, very clearly.

“Sparrows. Castle. Sparrows. Castle. Coming,” Royth muttered, over and over. Then, Kells remembered what Royth had said; his Sight was triggered by touch, or by immediate peril. And if they were Sparrows…that was grave news.

“What did you say?” Kells dropped the hammer, and stormed across the room, to the cell bars, where he heard Royth more clearly. “What do you mean, Sparrows?” He reached for the keys that dangled from his belt, and unlocked the cell, entering it with great urgency. Royth still spoke the same three words, over and over, until Kells delivered a mighty punch to his stomach, and brought him out of the trance.

“They’re coming for me,” Royth said, in a confused panic. “Why are they coming for me?”

“The Sparrows?” Kells demanded.

“They’re coming to kill me. But they shouldn’t. Unless -” he said, stopping. “The King’s dead. They think the new King won’t listen to me.” He looked at Kells with absolute horror; Kells knew this was far better a result than any torture could bring.

“It seems they’re doing my work for me,” Kells replied, lying through his teeth, and allowing himself a brief smile. “I think I’ll leave you to them.”

“No, no, no,” Royth pleaded, with growing urgency, “You have to stop them. Please. Sophine told you - you have to keep me
alive
.”