King Callie: Callie's Saga, Book One (9 page)

“You’ll be in good company down here,” one guard said, gesturing to Royth’s neighbor. “Traitor.”

Royth made scarcely a sound until the guards left; then, there were only tears.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Kells was very used to being summoned to the guard’s quarters by his men; he was not at all used to being summoned by Marrol, and not at all so early in the morning. The quarters were mostly empty; the guards that managed the night rounds were resting in bunks, and others were out practicing their martial skills. Kells proceeded to his personal office, where he found the Minister of War, sitting in his own chair. Marrol cut a brutishly handsome figure, cloaked in red - clean-shaven, wide-jawed and stone-faced; a second chair, in front of him, was unoccupied.

“Stop telling my men what to do,” Kells said, as he entered the room. He locked eyes with Marrol. “They fall outside of your influence, Minister.”

“Sit,” Marrol said, gesturing to the other open seat. Kells stood.

“What gives you the right?” Kells asked.

“Sit, Captain,” Marrol reiterated. “And we will talk.”

Kells walked over to the chair, and stood in front of it, facing the Minister. A displeased frown appeared on Marrol’s face. “I said sit.”

“I came when you asked,” Kells replied. “But Prisoners are my domain, as is the safety of the King and his family. So if I choose to
stand
when you tell me to
sit
-”

Marrol’s frown turned hostile. “You will sit when I tell you to sit, Kells. And when a member of that same family dies under your watch, and you do not take the culprit into the dungeon and shove blazing irons under his nails… you have lost the right to stand.
Sit
.”

Kells relented, reluctantly; he sat, and he seethed. “You were watching an impetuous youth and dealing with vagrants that one might call your family,” Marrol said, full of scorn, “If memory serves. And you were on a mission to pick flowers. How it became the disaster it was, I’ll never know.” Kells wisely hid his protests. He was happier to let Marrol think it was so simple; it raised fewer questions, and for him, that was better. And worse, in a way - but not worse than it could be, if he were truthful. It did not mean that he would cave to Marrol; there was a difference between concealing truths and maintaining appearances.

“I agree,” Kells said, “And I am willing to face whatever consequences the King and Council deem appropriate.” Marrol remained silent, and glared at Kells. A faint smile spread on Kells’ face, as he waited for a reply. “So,” Kells said, satisfied at the balance of power. “What of Royth?”

“The prisoner,” Marrol said, “will be interrogated, and he will tell us who paid for Valric’s death. You will do it, and find the culprits, or be stripped of your position.”

“And if I’m successful, what then?” Kells asked, as a cold sweat broke out along his brow. Valric’s death was his own cause; that, Kells had no illusions about. But as he looked at Marrol in that seat, he wondered what would change if Marrol knew whose blade had been buried in the Prince’s belly.

Marrol shifted forward in his seat, and steepled his fingers. “Then we know who wishes to see us unbalanced,” he said. “And we will avenge our loss on the Erimeni who killed him, to show our strength.”

Kells became cross. “No,” he said. “That duel saved our men’s lives. If you attack the Erimeni, you’ve spit on his grave and declared war on a people who can quickly make our merchants’ lives hell.” He’d hoped to make a point, to push him away from the Erimeni - who could easily finger him, and call him prince-killer, traitor, murderer; instead, Marrol scoffed.

“Traveling mercenaries and vagabonds,” Marrol told Kells. “All easily crushed under our feet. I’ll lead the force myself.”

“And what if Royth acted alone?” Kells replied, as he leaned forward. “What if he sent Valric on a mission because he saw something in the boy’s future - or because of a previous grievance?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Marrol said, as he reclined in his chair, and rested an elbow on the top of the back. “It doesn’t make sense at all. He was
directed
to do it by an outside power. A man like Royth doesn’t save a Prince’s life, and then change his mind without outside influence. He has never been
one
of
us
, Kells. Half of you understands that. Now get the other half to admit it.”

“Don’t dismiss the possibility he’s alone,” Kells replied, cold, “Because you’ve invested in a different outcome.”

Marrol looked at Kells with a cautious gaze. “I want to protect this country. And make no mistake - there are forces that will shackle us, and hold a blade to our throats. They will strip us of our freedom. We must know who they are, and when they intend to strike, Kells. But do not think for a second let our Prince’s death go unpunished.”

“I think it should,” Kells said, a bit nervous. Not just for Marrol’s ambitions, but for what they might mean if he discovered the truth. “He was no crown prince. The throne passes with Peacebringer, not with blood. Why avenge Valric, when it will only bring us harm?”

Marrol boiled at the suggestion, which caught Kells by surprise; he’d dearly underestimated the Minister’s loyalty. The words that came after were forceful; violent, even. “It does not matter what his station could have been or would be - he was a Prince of Barra, and his death is not something we will ignore,” Marrol said through gritted teeth. Were Kells a lesser man, he would’ve been intimidated by the Minister. But he remained firm.

“We can, if our kingdom wants peace,” Kells said. “But I wonder if you do.” Kells’ powerful words lit a fuse under the Minister - and it was little surprise when Marrol finally exploded in a torrent of rage, and shot out of the chair at Kells.

“I would give my Yom-damned life today, for a hundred years of peace in our kingdom,” Marrol seethed, standing over Kells. “But that is no option. We do not live in a time that rewards kindness and diplomacy. And if we wish to still have a kingdom after Rionn’s death, we must know who our enemies are, and stop them while they can be stopped.”

That’s enough,
Kells thought. He stood, and faced Marrol directly. “If you measure your strength by the enemies you’ve slain, it’s no measure at all,” he said, “Even in times like these.” He paused. “I’ll let you know what I find out from Royth. And for peace’s sake, I hope it was all an accident.”

The Minister still wore a look of anger. “Then you’d be wrong,” Marrol said. “The sooner you realize the danger we’re in, the better off we all are.”

Kells knew what danger he was in. He could not fight it; he could only hope the loyalty of lives saved was enough to protect his own. “Yes, Minister Marrol,” he said, and offered a brief bow before he left. As he exited his office, and walked back through the guards’ quarters, with aims of finally going home, Kells wondered if Marrol would be content without a guilty party, or a crown.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It wasn’t always easy for Kells to be home, with a job like his; stepping through the front door reminded him of that. Home didn’t always feel like home, odd as it seemed to think it. For years, it was something he was striving for – a house. A young, beautiful wife. Children. Something his mother could be proud of. But maybe, he had too much of his father in him, after all; the wanderlust was strong, and the blood never washed cleanly from his hands. He did his best to keep it separate, to close it off. To keep that wandering side anchored, for the sake of his family. His family.

Sometimes, he wondered if trying to stifle it had only made things worse.

But every time he returned home, a brief flourish of aromas – fresh bread, the smell of carpets and aging wood, the rich lavender that Ostre wore in her hair that mingled with her own scents – reminded him that he was home, and home was good. This day was no different, as he stepped through the front door of his large house; he smelled bread, fresh and hot, and the bright smell mixed with the familiar must of the house itself. And as Ostre kissed him, he smelled the lavender in her blonde hair, rich, soothing, and full. He pulled her close, and hugged her, a bit longer than he would have; her body found his, and he leaned into it. He still winced from the pain across his shoulders, but the physician took time enough away from the King to treat his wound.

“I heard from the maid,” she said, soft, as her hand moved upward, to caress a mound of short, cropped hair, just behind his left ear. “The King must be devastated.” She knew better than to ask how he was; he could never find the right words to say, but his body said enough.

Kells leaned into her hand, to find comfort in its softness, and sighed. “He’s more angry than anything else,” Kells said. “And I can’t blame him in the least.” Even if that damn lying Seer told him otherwise, no, Ostre was
his
wife. He loved her as much as he was able, when he could. It wasn’t always easy; he knew he wasn’t a loving person by nature. He was loyal, though – a good trait for a soldier. For a Captain of the Guard, even more so. But even his loyalty was very much in question.

“You’re alive,” Ostre said, with kind eyes, and a gentle, close-mouthed smile. “That’s what matters most.” Her words were sweet.

“Where’s Porthan?” he asked.

“Out with the other boys, playing soldier.”

“And Ibhaen?”

“She’s in one of her moods,” Ostre said, as her sweetness disappeared, and frustration seeped through. “Yesterday, she was excited for your return, but she hasn’t said a word to me since last night, after we went to the market… She’s angry at me, but why, I don’t know.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Kells said, as he arched an eyebrow. “It could be that she’s mad you didn’t buy her anything.”

“Yom above, I wish that were so,” Ostre said, as she shook her head. “She never likes anything I buy for her.”

“No?” Kells asked, curious. “But what about that dress you bought her, for the Solstice?”

“I had nothing to do with it. She asked that I give her the money,” Ostre said. “And she haggled with the dressmaker herself, until they made it as she requested… She thinks I have no taste,” Ostre added, dryly.

“That’s very untrue,” Kells said. “You always look beautiful to me.” Ostre wasn’t quick to smile at the compliment; she almost struggled to, for a moment, as if it caught her off guard.

“Thank you,” she said, before changing the subject. “Could you talk to her?” Ostre asked. “I don’t want your first night back to be filled with her sulking.”

“I will,” Kells said, as he kissed Ostre lightly on the lips. “She’s in her room, you said?” The feeling of her kiss lingered; he underestimated how much he’d wanted it – needed it, since the Erimeni camp, where he cheated death. He carried guilt with him, and when he kissed her, it was as if a weight was lifted. Briefly, Ostre smiled, and her fingers stroked his chin.

Kells kissed her again, unbidden; deeper, and with greater affection. When he was done, she tilted her head, slightly. “Did you miss me?” she asked, a coy smile on her lips.

“I did,” he replied. “All too much.” They had long passed the time when those words brought a giddy smile to her lips, just for his saying them; he kept saying them, all the same. Hoping that he’d feel the same way she did, once. And then, they became a reflex. He said them the way he’d draw a sword, careful and smooth, practiced over years, wielded carefully – sure to only use them when necessary. And that he’d never say them as he might cut a throat.

“Go talk to her,” she said, “Before I lose the will to send you away.”

“Of course,” Kells said, as he kissed her again, and then turned towards the stairs.

Theirs was a simple house; it was all he wanted. A more ambitious Captain of the Guard, too used to the cusp of greatness, would have bought a grander home, and hired more servants; Kells did no such thing. He had a stove, a dinner-table, a kitchen, a lady’s maid for his wife, and upstairs, three bedrooms with three good beds. The walls were plain, but for Ostre’s sparse decorations – a Barrish tapestry, curtains, and Kells’ father’s family crest painted on a shield. They hardly needed much more than that, in his eyes.

He took the stairs, and went to Ibhaen’s, the first room on the right. His and Ostre’s was on the far end of the hall; Porthan slept in Ibhaen’s room, out of fear of shadows and devils in the dark, and had since he was four. The door was closed, but opened easily. “Ibhaen,” he said, “I’ve come home.”

She leapt off the bed like a shot; no sooner had the door fully opened than there she was, tall as the top of his chest, tackling him. “Please don’t leave again,” she said, with pleading dark brown eyes. “Please?”

“I won’t,” Kells replied.

She hugged him tighter. “Don’t lie to me. Promise it.”

“I…yes,” he said, pushing his practicality aside. He was on the cusp of saying “I can’t promise anything”; he knew the danger of unfulfilled promises, and soldier’s oaths of safety. He made one, anyway.

“You swear?”

“I swear,” Kells said. “Just for you.”

Ibhaen nodded, and seemed to accept it. “Good,” she said. “I can’t trust her. Not after yesterday.”

Kells was dismayed. “Of course you can trust your mother,” he said. “What gave you that idea?”