Destined for a King (14 page)

But not now. Not yet. He pulled away before he lost control. Calista kept her eyes closed; her lips were swollen, and her cheeks pink. He fitted a palm to her jaw and drank in the sight. If he could remember her just like this…He'd carry that image with him into the battle he knew was coming.

And he'd use it as a reminder of all he was fighting for. At some point, his objective had shifted away from taking everything he could from Magnus. Now he wanted. He wanted the kingdom, the throne—the future, for Calista's sake, that together they might someday build something like his parents had had for all too short a time.

By the Three, he wanted that, and he wanted it forever.

Torch awoke to the feeling that something was amiss, a heaviness that weighed deep in his gut. He rolled over on the unforgiving flagstones of the great hall. All about him, his men slept—at least, those who weren't on watch. Various grunts and snores surrounded him along with a funk of unwashed bodies that clashed with the freshness of clean rushes.

All quiet in the rising gray of dawn. All as it should be.

Reflexively, he touched the Stone at his throat. Not the slightest pulse, not the barest hint of heat beneath his palm. Yet something had disturbed his sleep.

His gaze drifted across the hall to the family altar. In half a day, he would lead Calista before it and wed her before the gods. And weren't nerves supposed to beset a man on his wedding day?

But not him, not when the union was preordained. He clenched his fist about the Stone. Foretold, all of it, and he had Calista's consent.

Yet there remained another concern. After today, he would declare himself openly. No more hiding behind a
nom de guerre.
No turning aside. If the Ironfist didn't have reason to kill him already, after today he would. But that, too, was inevitable. Not death at the hand of the Usurper, but Torch's bid for the throne in his true name. It was his fate. He had to believe it.

“Sir?” Owl picked his way through the sleeping bodies. Both his hands were bound tightly in enormous swathes of linen. “They sent me from the walls.”

Torch heaved himself to his feet. “Of course they did. When you can't even hold a weapon you're good for naught but carrying messages. And with Kestrel gone, I need all the swords I can get. Even yours.”

Owl flushed, his face taking on a darker shade of gray in the dim morning light. “I'll serve as I can.”

“That you will, but I'd prefer it if you could wield a crossbow at the least.”

Owl drew himself up. “There's a man at the gate. Not one of our scouts. Hawk wants to know what to do with him.”

Torch reached for his scabbard and secured his sword at his back. “Take me to him.”

He followed Owl across the silent bailey. Not even the servants were stirring at this hour, although they would soon enough. Through the rising light of dawn, the skeletons of his unfinished defenses rose like broken fingers toward the sky.

They'll never be ready in time. Not the trebuchets, nor the trenches. Not even if they left the keep unguarded and worked night and day.

The thought came to him as clearly as a vision from his Stone. No matter. He had to believe he would prevail somehow. He would marry Calista, he would hold his keep. He would win the other lords to his cause. He would see his sister rescued. He would avenge his father and brother. He would sit on the throne at Highspring Moor. It was his birthright.

As long as the newly repaired gates held, they had a chance.

Owl showed him to the guardroom on the opposite side of the bailey. He ducked his head beneath the lintel to find Hawk standing over a thin, gray-haired man in rough robes. A length of knotted rope served as a belt. Peeking from the folds of his robes, a small brown pouch swung at his waist. An Acolyte, by his dress. Calista's former tutor, if Torch didn't miss his guess.

He jerked his head at Hawk. “Leave us.” Then he turned to the Acolyte. “What business do you have at Blackbriar?”

The man placed one hand over his heart, his head dipping, the gesture inordinately reverent for a man of Torch's reputation. “I am Brother Tancrid.”

“I presumed as much.”

“And you are the new lord of Blackbriar.” Brother Tancrid took a step forward, his gaze wandering from the top of Torch's head to his booted feet and back up. In an instant it touched everything—red-brown waves of hair, travel-worn leather jerkin, the Stone at Torch's throat, the sword at his back. “Yes. Yes. After Calista came to me, I thought long on the matter.” With a sniff, he ran his finger beneath his nose. “I consulted, and I decided the best course of action was to ascertain for myself. There have been other pretenders. None have convinced me until I set eyes on you. You
do
have the look of your father about you, even if you bear your mother's coloring.”

The air in the guardroom became suddenly scarce. Never. Never in his life had he met someone besides his mother who claimed to have known his father. Torch inhaled, long, slow. Easy. The revelation may have come as a shock, but there was no need to let it show. If he'd survived the wild this long, it was because he knew how to maintain a calm demeanor.

“My mother had golden hair,” Torch challenged.

Brother Tancrid nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. “Another test passed.”

Torch tamped down a surge of emotion. “Just who do you think my father is?”

“I do not think. I know.” Brother Tancrid wrapped his fingers about the carved triangular symbol that swung at his neck, the emblem of his order. “One whose name it is treason to speak. One who was murdered. One whose throne was stolen.”

Torch could barely credit the man's words, yet they rang with conviction. “How do you know this?”

“My order has its ways.” Torch had heard rumors of the Acolytes using secret means of inducing visions and thus obtaining esoteric knowledge. “But in this case, I am relying on my own memory.”

“You knew my father?”

“Nothing so exalted as that, but I spent some time studying in the archives at Highspring before they were destroyed. That gave me occasion to observe the royal family when chance befell. Your parents' wedding day was a sight to behold. The entire city gathered on the concourse before the palace to see your mother arrive all bedecked in silk. Such pomp, such finery I have never seen.” He waved a hand. “But I'm sure you do not wish to hear my reminisces.”

Torch did. He hungered for them the way a starving man craves a banquet. But not now. Not with the immediate future so uncertain. “Perhaps another time.”

“Of course.” Once more Brother Tancrid's gaze lit on Torch's throat. “But now that I have seen, I would offer what service I might.”

Torch took a step back. “It was my understanding your order did not involve itself in the affairs of men.”

It was the only reason someone like Magnus Ironfist would have allowed their continued existence when the Acolytes maintained the king's annals.

Tancrid smiled. “Who told you that? Not one of my brothers, certainly. No true Son of Earth would ever proclaim such.” He reached behind his head and untied the leather thong about his neck. The carved triangle danced on its string, point down. “Do you understand the symbolism behind this device?”

Torch blinked. The last thing he'd expected was a lesson as if he were still a boy. As if he'd ever benefited from a tutor. Any schooling that had served him had come in the training yard—and in the stables where Steelsleet's sons doled out an education with fists and booted feet.

“Three sides for the three gods,” he hazarded.

“Not quite, even if it's what everyone thinks. No, the angles represent the Three. Do you see how they're all equal?”

“That is only because the All-Mother and the All-Father have not yet defeated the Faceless One.”

“You speak heresy.” Another man might have turned such a statement into an accusation. Brother Tancrid maintained his air of mild amusement.

“If
that
is heresy, it is only what everyone believes.” After all, Torch had received little in the way of religious education—only a mishmash of practices from his upbringing at the Pinnacle to his travels through the Freeholds and beyond.

“The Sons of Earth do not believe it. The notion that the Faceless One is evil and should be defeated is erroneous. None of the Three are good or evil. They simply are, and they are not at odds. Evil only arises when the world falls out of balance. Only foolish men believe it is necessary for one god to defeat another.”

Brother Tancrid proffered his pendant. “Consider our device. Three equal sides, three equal corners, and the point on which all hinges? That is the Faceless One. Remove It from the equation and all else founders.”

“What does any of this have to do with me?”

“Ah, now, that is the question.” Brother Tancrid nodded encouragement. “There are those who would claim Magnus upset the balance when he stole the throne.”

“So my reclaiming it would set the world to rights. It would restore what he upset.”

“Yes, indeed. But take care. Most men believe their actions exist to right past wrongs. Under that conviction, Magnus took the throne.”

Torch scrubbed a hand over his chin. “His claim to the throne is not legitimate.”

“Magnus would claim otherwise. Do you have proof?”

There was the crux of the issue. Torch didn't have proof beyond the name that he would declare before the gods today. A believer might take that as solid evidence, but he had nothing tangible. Only what his mother had told him. In other terms, his own belief in the rightness of his claim. “I bring upheaval. I bring fire and sword. Who is to determine if I am restoring balance?”

“Most often, those who come after make that determination.”

“My chroniclers.”

“If you succeed, you shall have them. And if you retake the throne, you will be in a position to name those who set forth your history. It is ever the way of things.” Brother Tancrid set the pendant in motion, swaying back and forth on its thong. “The greater the imbalance, the greater all must swing to the opposite side to compensate and the longer things require to settle. Magnus created an enormous upheaval when he seized power. It will take just as great an upheaval to restore peace to the Strongholds.”

“I expected no less. But come, you did not turn up here to discuss philosophy.”

Brother Tancrid closed his fingers about his emblem to stop its rocking. “I have no weapons to lend you nor any skill at arms or strength. What I do possess is the power of knowledge.” He focused once more on Torch's throat. “I am not the only seeker present, I see.”

Torch raised his hand to cover his Stone. Something about the vivid interest in the Acolyte's gaze aroused a wave of protectiveness. “Hardly a gem worthy of a monarch.”

“Might I have a closer look?”

No.

Torch dropped his hand as if the Stone had flamed hot beneath his fingers. While it hadn't, the denial had leapt directly into his mind as if the Stone itself had spoken. And yet, he'd just told Brother Tancrid it was a trifle. If he let his protective urge show, the Acolyte might suspect something. Perhaps he already did.

Reluctantly, Torch held out the short chain, so Brother Tancrid could inspect the Stone. The Acolyte extended his index finger, the yellowed nail jutting like a claw.

With the very tip of that nail, he traced the vein of darker mineral that cut through the Stone. “This is the blood of the earth.”

This conversation reminded Torch of the day he put his hand down to break his fall and the unimaginable happened. The ground under his palm had warmed. “What?”

“You bear the earth's blood with you. It runs in veins beneath all the lands to connect them.”

“It cannot be blood. It does not flow.”

“But it does. Far beneath the earth, there is heat, hotter than any forge, enough to melt stone and send the earth's blood pumping beneath the surface. It is the link. The source of all knowledge. It is the master; I am but a servant. It is the father; I am the son.”

Torch glanced down at his Stone, half expecting it to blaze just as hot as Brother Tancrid claimed. And it had—when Calista touched it. Perhaps the Acolyte's ravings weren't complete lunacy. The Avestari believed in the visions. Torch had experienced them himself. “Could it tell me how to create Adamant?”

Adamant would solve Torch's problems. It would make Blackbriar Keep impregnable. It would give him unbreakable weapons. It would allow him to defeat Magnus.

Brother Tancrid raised his brows. “I daresay it could if you knew how to use it.” The implication was clear—Brother Tancrid thought himself able to access this forgotten lore.

But once again,
No
echoed through Torch's mind. If the stone itself knew the secrets, it did not wish to give them up.

Brother Tancrid glanced about the guardroom, and Torch caught the significance of that look, too. The Acolyte's mind was piecing together what Torch wished to accomplish. “Yes, you will need a place of strength to face what is coming. But you'll never unlock the secret and construct weapons of Adamant, let alone walls, before Magnus sends his hosts.”

Blackbriar's altar to the Three stood in an alcove at one side of the great hall, a tiny little niche lined with stone, where perfumed embers were ever kept alit, a perpetual flame for the Three Gods who existed before the beginning and would persist after the end. Hardly room for a crowd to witness their vows, but there was space enough for two.

Calista never imagined herself standing here to make her wedding vows. With her betrothal to the king, she'd expected an elaborate ceremony at Highspring Moor, at the palace itself, attended by courtiers in silk and velvet and samite. Her mother had already commissioned a gown in cloth-of-gold tailored to skim the slender lines of her body and fit like a glove. Edged in costly Freehold lace, its neckline plunged to show off her bosom, and the sleeves fitted skin-tight to the elbow before belling out until they draped to the floor, lined in white silk and edged in more lace.

A gown fit for a queen. Tamsin had sewn her into it this morning. Torch was likely going to tear the delicate fabric when it came time to disrobe.

As she descended the steps into the great hall, taking great care not to trip on her train or her sleeves, her mother came to meet her, shaking her head. “You cannot think to wear this to wed that…that…”

“Upstart?” It was her mother's favorite expression for Torch. “Would you have me in cottar-spun or linsey?”

“You were meant for Magnus. You were meant for the king.”

Calista opened her mouth and closed it again. Yes, and why not declare it openly? In a few moments, the entire hall would hear. “Perhaps I still am.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You'll see.” She hoped so. As long as a bolt of lightning didn't strike her where she stood when she declared Torch's true name.

Mother pinched the trailing fabric of Calista's sleeve and tugged. “I should like an explanation.”

“Let her be, Amara.” Her father appeared on the steps and put a hand on his wife's shoulder. Her mother turned, and a telling look passed between them, a wordless conversation, such as Calista had seen them conduct many times in the past, but never had their expressions been so serious. “The choice has been made. Events must now play out as they were meant to.”

Calista dearly wanted to ask her father what he meant by that last comment. He wasn't one to invoke destiny. No, that was her mother's favored point. Coming from her father, it rang an off note, like a warning bell.

For the thousandth time since she'd agreed to go through with this, she spared a thought for Jerrah. There was another horrible wrong in this entire situation. Calista suppressed a shudder at the thought of Magnus callously turning Torch's sister over to his guards. But even if Calista refused to go through with this wedding, the damage was done. Magnus would dispose of Jerrah either way.

Too late now. The hall was filling with servants and retainers, Blackbriar's men, whom she'd known all her life, and Torch's Brothers alike.
I must trust in Kestrel and Jerrah herself.
Calista had inhabited the woman's body in the midst of battle. She knew that Torch's sister could defend herself.

“Your intended awaits,” her father added.

Calista looked up the hall toward the niche that housed the altar. Torch stood, clad in his gear. Black boiled leather, tooled and worn soft, covered shiny ring mail. Owl must have stayed up half the night cleaning it, in spite of his bandaged fingers. Matching boots and a faded deep green cloak. Just beyond Torch's left shoulder the hilt of his sword protruded from its scabbard; a leather strap embossed in intricate patterns that reminded Calista of her mother's tattoos bound his sword in place. A matching belt at his waist sported a silver dagger. From head to foot, he looked every bit the rogue.

“He looks as if he's dressed for battle, not a wedding,” her mother muttered.

“Some would say marriage is a battle, my dear,” her father replied. “But never ours.”

Calista bit her lip. As a girl, whenever she'd envisioned her marriage, she'd hoped to have a relationship such as her parents enjoyed.
You wouldn't have had that with Magnus.
No, she realized that now. But would she have it with Torch? At times, like last night when he kissed her so thoroughly in her solar, an entire vista of sensual possibility—far beyond what he'd already shown her—had opened up. The All-Mother knew how she'd love to explore every corner of that world. With him. With Torch.
Only the future will tell.

If they all lived that long. For Magnus would surely descend on the keep as soon as the news reached him.

Conscious of the hall full of eyes watching her, she marched the length, her head held high in a show of bravado she barely felt. Tamsin grinned, but just beyond Calista caught sight of two scullery maids with their heads together. One lowered her brows and shook her head.

Let them speculate. Let them say she'd betrayed them all. She had no choice now but to go through with this wedding.

Before the niche, decorated with its carvings of the Mother, the Father, and the Faceless One, the air fragrant with the spicy scent of incense, her father took her hand and laid it in Torch's. “I give my only daughter into your care for the rest of her days. Protect her.”

Such terse words, but protection was likely what she needed most. What they would all need.

Torch's fingers entwined with hers. He'd left off his gauntlets, and the warmth of his palm seeped into her skin. Not taking his gaze from hers, he lifted her hand, and brushed his lips across the back of it, the heat almost like a brand. She half expected to find the imprint of his mouth permanently burned into her flesh.

Then he released her hand and knelt at her feet. She gasped, as did the onlookers, all but a few females who emitted a breathy sigh. He reached behind him and drew his sword, setting the point on the stone floor and presenting her with the hilt.

“I take you as my queen, to protect and honor, to be my light in darkness, my courage in fear, my healing in sickness, my riches in need, my peace in war, my life in death. In token I present you my sword by which I so swear from this hour henceforth, until death take me or the world end.” He paused, holding her gaze with his compelling eyes, brown with flecks of gold and green. “I name you now Calista Vandal.”

Utter silence fell over the hall. He'd spoken loudly and with such assurance. The final word—the king's family name—echoed into the stone-vaulted ceiling. Calista's heart pounded in her ears. And then a murmur arose behind her. She pictured her parents, heads together, eyebrows raised, wondering over this claim. The rest of Blackbriar's retainers as well. The only ones who might have anticipated this were the Bastard Brotherhood, and perhaps even they hadn't expected a public declaration so soon.

At her feet, Torch raised his brows and nodded. He wanted her to say her vows, but first she had to find her voice. She began to repeat the familiar words by rote, words almost any girl had spoken in her imagination hundreds of times as she pictured herself standing before her family's altar with a man of her choosing, or her father's.

“I take you as my king…” She nearly faltered on the word, not realizing until this moment the complete import of what she was saying. What she was declaring. That word had been part of the wedding vows from time immemorial, but with the revelation of his name, it took on a new meaning. She wasn't merely swearing fealty to her husband. She was cementing an alliance with a claimant to the throne. In public and before the gods. And with witnesses who might somehow carry the tale back to Magnus. Unbidden, Rand's image, as she'd seen him in the stables yesterday floated through her mind. Yes, if anyone might set himself against Torch, he would.

She came to the end of the declaration, pausing in her turn. “I name you…”

Wide-eyed she stared at Torch, looking for guidance. Once more, he nodded. His entire body strained toward her as if to say,
Yes, do it. Proclaim it. Declare my true name.

“Josse Vandal.”

As he rose, a cheer erupted from the hall behind her. His men. They'd drawn their daggers to beat on their shields in a great clatter that drowned out everything else. If her own people were muttering against her, denouncing her for a traitor to the true king, she could not hear it.

“Kiss her! Give her a good one!” She did not recognize the voice. One of his own, surely.

A wicked grin spread slowly over Torch's features, and he glanced past her shoulder. “By all means.”

And then his entire attention focused on her, his hands found her shoulders, and he crushed her against him. His lips met hers in a kiss that was the very definition of possessive, deep and hard and—gods—heart-pounding. An eternity later, he pulled back, regret and promise mingling in his gaze.

“Alas, we aren't yet finished,” he said loudly enough for the hall to hear. “Our feast awaits, but first we've one final ritual to observe.”

He pulled a silver dagger from his belt, and the light from the sconces glittered along its blade. Perfectly honed, perfectly lethal. He reached behind her ear, pulled a tendril of hair from beneath her veil, and cut it off with a single deft stroke before removing a lock of his own. The colors mingled, her dark brown with his lighter shade, tinged with red. He placed it on the glowing embers, where flames took it, the strands curling quickly to ash and giving off an acrid smell that cut through the incense.

And then a wave engulfed her. Torch's men, his Brothers, all swarmed the altar to claim their kiss until her cheeks were raw with the scrape of their whiskers. If Torch would protest their attentions, he did so with a light heart, laughing as he shoved each man aside with not even enough force to knock him to the ground. Loudly, boisterously, his men lifted her to their shoulders. The room spun, but not before she caught a glimpse of her mother's disapproving face.

Barbarians. Mother might as well have said the word aloud, for the depth of the lines between her eyes. Her father took her arm and turned her aside, while the men bore Calista shrieking to the dais, where the table lay spread for her wedding feast.

There'd been no time to prepare an elaborate meal, and even less to consider dishes fit for a king. But wine flowed in quantity, and the cup she shared with Torch was never left empty. The company became loud and louder, Torch's men leading the way with ribald comments, which became ever bawdier with each drained goblet.

After a while, Blackbriar's men fell into the spirit, drinking toast after toast to the couple. And then Rand lurched onto a table, raising his glass. “In your honor, a riddle, my lord and lady.” He wavered where he stood, the words slurred. “How many Freehold whores does it take to whelp a bastard?”

As it had when Torch declared her name, utter silence fell, and the mood in the hall went from boisterous to strained in an instant. The subtle ring of metal sounded as sword and daggers were loosened, but Torch's men looked to their leader for his reaction.

Bastard.
How that word mocked him, and he'd heard it all his life. The only worse word was
whore,
and he'd heard that as well. Steelsleet's two sons who were eager enough to form their own conclusions, both about his mother's status and his. Especially when his brother and sister came along less than nine turns of the moon after Magnus stole the throne. It was widely believed that his mother served as the lord's leman, no matter the truth.

But Torch couldn't let that show. To react to the taunting was to give Thorne's man that power over him. So he let himself smile. “I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that question,” he said mildly. “Because if I didn't know better, I might think you were referring to my lady wife. And we all know you'd never intend such an insult, especially on her wedding day.”

That ought to have subdued the man, at least had he been sober. But his cheeks and nose were red with drink, and he wavered as he stood on the table. Wine, unfortunately, leant him courage he might not have otherwise possessed. “Referring to your wife? Not at all. Known the girl all her life, I have. I know her well enough that it saddens me to see her sully herself with such likes when she could have wed a king.”

So much for trying to turn this situation aside. If he was to hold any authority in the keep, he'd have to deal with this man, and now. He planted his palms on the table and rose to his feet. “She has wed a king, or did the significance of the name I claimed escape you?”

Beside him, Calista laid a hand on his arm and murmured something, but the blood rushing in his head drowned out her words.

Still mounted on the table, the Blackbriar guardsman took a staggering step toward the dais. His booted foot narrowly missed landing in a full plate of food. “A man without a name can call himself what he wants. That doesn't change what he is.”

“A man must declare his true name before the sanctified altar of the Three or be forever damned. Or are you not a believer?”

“I…well…”

“If I'd not claimed my right name, the gods would have struck me down, would they not? None can lie before them. Therefore, all must recognize that my true name is Josse Vandal, son of Jaffe Vandal, the man Magnus Ironfist murdered in order to rule these lands. Deny my own claim to the throne as you see fit, but never, ever say I've lied about who I am.” He fixed the man with his iciest stare, one he'd perfected on Steelsleet's sons.

Those boys had never been able to withstand it long, and neither did Thorne's retainer. He took a step back, somehow managed to trip, and sat down hard, sending trenchers, food, and goblets flying.

“Take that man off,” Torch ordered with a wave of his hand. He was perhaps going soft on the miscreant. Someone like Magnus would have hewn the man's head from his shoulders where he stood. But if Torch could present a fairer alternative, he might just win a few more followers. “He's clearly had all that's good for him.” He glared a challenge about the hall. His own men sat alert, while Thorne's seemed to sink in their seats. Thorne in particular, seated on Calista's far side, avoided Torch's gaze.