8 UNDER THE BLUE STAR

8

UNDER THE BLUE STAR

Andry

The water steamed, hot over the fire in their small parlor. He could have called for servants to bring tea from the kitchens, but Andry preferred to make it himself. He knew what Lady Valeri preferred, and it was best served piping hot. Their apartments, lovely as they were, were far from the sprawling palace kitchens. Besides, Andry liked to watch the water and wait. It gave him something to think about besides blood and slaughter. Besides the cold, crackling whispers waiting in the corners of his mind.

He stared into the pot over the fire, the surface of the water rippling with slow bubbles. Herbs swirled with an inner current, peaceful and predictable. Andry tried to lose himself in the pattern. Even so, the cries of fallen heroes found him. He wrenched his gaze to the fire, willing their screams away. But the coals cracked and burned, split with flame and ash.

White hands, red eyes, skin like charred wood.

“Ambara-garay,”said a weak voice. Have faith in the gods. His mother put a hand on his shoulder and Andry turned, pulled from his waking nightmare.

She hovered over him, her smile thin but bright. Without thought, Andry took her fingers and kissed them. He jumped to stand.

“Sit, Mama,” he urged, all but lifting her into his chair by the hearth.

Valeri Trelland did not argue. She was a tall woman, but wispy, and she curled into herself when she took the seat. Andry tucked her shawl around her narrow shoulders, focused on keeping her covered and comfortable. Despite her illness, the cold that seemed to live in her chest, Lady Valeri was still striking in her beauty. She was not called the jewel of her kin for no reason. Andry saw it even on her worst days, the way a light seemed to glow in her skin, like a dark garnet filled with sunshine. Her hair was short now, braided tightly to her head, the ends set with gold rings. Her eyes seemed larger in her drawn face. They were the rare green of young wheat, hesitant to give over to gold. Andry envied her eyes. His own were a muddy brown. My father’s. But the rest of him looked like Valeri, with his black hair and high cheekbones.

“Here you are,” he said, preparing her cup of tea with sure, quick movements. Lemon, cinnamon, clove, sweetsalt, honey. The bounty of summer in the Gallish capital, when all the Ward seemed to cross from Rhashir to the Jydi snows.

Valeri took the cup and breathed in, smiling. The wet rattle in her chest loosened. Andry pulled another chair to the fire and sat, content to watch her sip her tea.

Andry and his family had never lived in a house of their own. His father had been a knight in the king’s service, his mother a lady to the old queen and then Erida. His home was these rooms, generously given to them to use even after his father was long dead and his mother too sick to serve. Sometimes he wondered if the Queen’s administrators had simply forgotten them. The New Palace of Ascal was a monstrous place, walled onto its own island, a city unto itself, where thousands lived and worked at the Queen’s pleasure. It would be easy to overlook a squire and his ailing mother. Before, when he’d served Sir Grandel, Andry slept in the barracks or the Lionguard quarters, close at hand should his lord have need of him. Not anymore. He did not lament leaving the narrow cot in a room crowded with boys of varying ages and odors. But the circumstances by which he had returned to tend his mother were a price he wished he did not have to pay.

The palace around them was two hundred years old, built of pale gray and yellow stone. They lived in the east wing, a long hall of apartments broken by courtyards, with the majority of the Queen’s courtiers. Their own were at the base of a tower, rounded slightly, its windows like narrowed eyes. Colorful tapestries decorated their walls, scenes of hunts and jousts and battles and feasts. They used to make Andry excited, eager to begin his life as a knight. Now the bright threads were dull, their scenes false.

There is no blood,he thought, his eyes lingering on a woven depiction of the Battle of the Lanterns. In it, the armored legions of Galland fell upon the cities of Larsia, their great green-and-gold flag held high. Though swords and spears glinted in silver thread, they were clean, and the Larsians fell to their knees in surrender.

We were never even given the chance. There was no mercy in that army, or that man.Andry squeezed his eyes shut and turned away even as the cursed image of Taristan rose in his mind. Corblood in his veins, a Spindleblade in his fist. Made of stone, made of flame, made of mortal flesh. Red blood, black armor, white hands, white ash, white-hot pain and anger and loss—

“How go your petitions?”

Andry blinked furiously, clearing his head. The hot sting in his eyes faded with his mother’s voice. “Sorry—what?”

She put a frail hand on his. Firelight danced on his mother’s face, brightening already brilliant eyes.

“Your petitions, madero,” Valeri said gently. My dear. “You have been petitioning lords and knights for service. You told me so last week.”

“Oh, y-yes,” Andry stuttered, finding his voice. He braced himself for another inquisition. “Yes, indeed, I’ve been asking around the barracks and the court. Sent some letters off as well,” he added, the half-truth tasting rotten. It was against the code of knights to lie, but with his mother in such a state, with such things still spilling forth on the horizon, finding another man to squire for was far from his mind. I have written letters, yes, but not seeking patronage.

Valeri drained her cup. “Anything promising?”

Quickly, Andry stood to prepare his mother another draft. He put his back to her so she would not see the falsehoods written on his face. I am no good at lying.

“A few,” he said, stirring honey. “Lord Konegin’s son just gained a knighthood and would be in need of a squire.”

“If memory serves, that boy is in need of far more,” Valeri muttered, giggling to herself.

Andry turned back to her with a wry smile. “Drink,” he said, nudging the cup into her hands. “The doctor is due to visit today. The Queen’s own.”

A strange look crossed Valeri’s face but quickly disappeared. “Oh, that isn’t necessary,” she sighed. “She need not fuss over me.”

Andry felt a twist of annoyance. He gently pushed the tea back to her mouth. Even as she swallowed, Andry heard the roughness in her throat. He braced himself for another coughing fit, but it never came. A stillness washed over her, and she fixed him with an odd stare.

“He’s university trained in Ibal,” he explained. The northern continent was not known for its skills in medicine. “Dr. Bahi isn’t another one of the foolish Gallish bloodletters or superstitious moon healers—”

Valeri waved a hand, suddenly sharp. Her eyes bored into his. “Why is the Queen of Galland bothering over me?”

“You were companion to her mother,” he offered, and almost winced. I’m not bending the truth so much as breaking it in half. “You knew her as a girl. Erida is a compassionate young woman.”

“You know the histories better than I do. Have you ever known a king or queen of Galland to be compassionate?” Valeri answered. Her eyes darted to the tapestries on the walls, to the sword and shield of his father, still hung on the stone. A great long scratch divided the shield in two, scarring the heraldry of Trelland’s blue star. It had not been earned in the training yard. “Was this shadow of the old empire forged from compassion, or from blood?”

Andry really did wince. The last thing he needed was to think of his father, broken on some field in Madrence, spent like an old coin. “Mother, please.”

But she stood, trembling, and Andry could not force her back down. The fire crackled at her back, turning her edges to ruby and gold.

“I came to the Royal Court of Ascal as a foreign bride, set apart from almost everyone around me by my skin and my voice. I have not remained here in high esteem by being foolish, and I will not see my son made a fool,” she said. Her hands met his cheeks, turning his face up to look at her. “What does Erida want from you?”

The breath caught in Andry’s throat. He hesitated, reluctant to put such a burden on an already burdened woman. Valeri stared down at him, the hearthfire in her eyes, and she was young again, vibrant, beautiful, impossible to deny.

Queen Erida had visited only a week ago, to pay her respects. And to quietly, carefully, and expertly try to pry from him any more details about the slaughter of the Companions. There was little more to say that did not concern a certain sword. And the whispers were clear as a bell.

Say nothing of the sword. Or face the ending of the world.

“She’s seen me twice now, and both times I told her as much as I’ve told you,” Andry said, his shoulders still raised in tension. He tried to force some of his mother’s own strength into himself. It felt as impossible as coaxing wet coals into flame. “What I saw in the mountains. What happened to Sir Grandel and the rest. The Spindle torn open, the army, Taristan and his wizard.” Her gaze narrowed. Andry ignored the sensation of being looked through, being read. “I told her of the Ward’s doom.”

“And she didn’t believe you.” It was not a question.

“I don’t know. I can’t say. Certainly she did not move to act.” He shook his head. “And so she spun the story of Jydi raiders, told the court it was an ambush. Everything she’s asked of me I’ve already given.”

Valeri’s grip on her son tightened.

“Does that include the sword you’ve hidden beneath my bed?” she murmured.

Andry jolted, looking to the door leading into her bedchamber. He grit his teeth, braced for the rush of whispers. But they never came.

With a soft pat, Valeri drew him back to her. “I am not foolish, madero.”

He clenched his jaw and took her hands. On shaking legs, Andry rose up, until he stood over her, taller by far. Whatever fear he felt in himself, curled deep in his belly, he saw reflected in her. He did not know what was worse to bear.

“I didn’t tell her about the Spindleblade. I didn’t tell anyone,” he swore, his voice low.

She huffed a dry scoff. “Not even me.”

Slowly, Andry pulled Valeri’s hands away, but kept her fingers in his own. They were so thin and small, wasting like the rest of her.

“It belonged to Cortael of Old Cor, the mortal of Spindleblood, a descendant of the empire fallen. He died in the mud with the rest of them, and the sword . . . it’s the only thing I managed to save.”

“It’s a fine blade, I’m sure,” she bit out. “But why haven’t you given it to Erida? Or back to the Elders?”

The squire could only shake his head, barely able to answer. The truth sounded foolish, even in his own mind. But Valeri was undeniable, her eyes like two moons.

“Something in me, a voice I do not know, tells me I shouldn’t. That I have to wait. Does that make any sense at all?”

Valeri looked to the fire, watching the flames for a long moment. Her breath wheezed. “Perhaps it is the gods of the Ward, the gods of Kasa, speaking to you so,” she finally said. “Or it is simply your own good instinct.”

But the voice is not my own.

“I dream of it every night,” he said, voice flat. He’d built a wall inside himself, trying to keep the memories at bay. “That sword, the red steel. Sir Grandel and the Norths. All of them slaughtered, even the Elders, immortal as they were. Everything fell before that army, before that man. I see it every time I close my eyes.” Andry dropped her fingers and ran a hand over his own face. A numbness stole over him. “Did Father talk of battle like this? I can’t remember.”

I was only six years old when he died, lost in a fight that meant nothing, for little more than a bend in the river, another glimmer in Galland’s crown.

Valeri did not hesitate to shake her head. “Never like this,” she said quickly, looking to the shield on the wall. “Never like this.”

Andry followed her gaze. The blue star with the scratch down the middle was as familiar as his own two hands. It was the emblem of his father and his father alone, earned not by a long bloodline but by loyalty to the crown, devotion to the dead king, and the ultimate sacrifice on a distant field. He knew the star better than his father’s face, which he only carried in flashes. A merry smile, a swoop of auburn hair, long arms always reaching to scoop him up or pull his mother close. Sir Tedros Trelland was as mist in his memories, fleeting and impossible to hold.

His grave is empty too, his body never recovered from the mud of the field. It will be only bones now, if anything at all.

“Do you believe me?” Andry whispered, to his mother and the shield. The blue star seemed to glare. “Do you believe what I saw? What I heard?” He took a shaky breath. “What I still hear?”

Valeri took him firmly by the shoulders. She looked up at her son, wide-eyed.

“I do.”

Her faith settled around him like a suit of armor.

“Then we need to make arrangements.” He stepped out of her hands with a will. More arrangements, for some are already made. His letters were on the road and the sail, traveling by courier and boat. Most were bound for Kasa. One had already received a reply. “And you need to be ready to travel.”

Valeri’s face fell. Andry wished he could tear the sickness right out of her chest.

“Madero, you know I can’t—”

“I won’t hear it, Mama.” Already he saw her hacking coughs on the deck of the ship as they fled, putting the Long Sea between themselves and a Spindleborn army. “We go together, or not at all.”

There was no fear in Valeri Trelland, a lady born of Kin Kiane. She flattened her palm against her chest to steady her own breathing.

“Then we go.”

The Hill of Heroes basked in the sunlight, green and gold as the Gallish flag. It was another island in the river delta, walled like the palace. Countless tombs and headstones marched in endless rows: knights and great lords fallen for Galland. The graves of the kings crowned the Hill, marked by statues and flowering trees. The capital of Ascal was home to more than half a million people, but one would never know it from these still, green lawns.

Andry saw the Hill’s shadow every morning from the training yards of the New Palace, the silhouettes of the stones like fingers against the sky. They reached for him now, white marble and black granite, their grip unbreakable. With me, they hissed in a thousand weaving voices. With me, Sir Grandel moaned, dying again.

His breath came hard and fast as he walked, his pulse thrumming in his ears. Sweat dripped through his short-cropped hair. He tried to think not of Sir Grandel’s corpse, but of his tombstone. It was already waiting, flanked by headstones for the Norths, surrounded by a forest of graves for dead knights. The funeral would be a large affair, with even the Queen in attendance. It had somehow taken weeks to plan, though the coffins would be empty.

He passed through the gates of the cemetery with the rest of the squires, wellborn boys in service to the great knights of the kingdom. The knights themselves were all on horseback, in gleaming armor with cloaks of all colors. Behind the squires came the pages, some as young as seven, dressed in light summer tunics to match their knights. Andry glanced back to see a pair shoving each other silently. In jest or rivalry, he did not know. Most squires grew out of that sort of thing.

Most.

An elbow dug into Andry’s ribs. He barely felt it. There was far more to think about—getting his mother out of Ascal, the festering army at the border, the empty graves ahead, the sword hidden, the Spindle torn, the whispers that greeted him every morning.

“I’m talking to you, Trelland,” someone said harshly. The elbow struck again.

Andry clenched his jaw. He did not need to look to know it was Davel Monne, who the boys all called Lemon for his name, his yellow hair, and especially his sour disposition. Like the rest of the squires, Lemon’s hair was cut short, but it sprouted like horrible weeds.

“I deserve to know what happened, same as you,” Lemon hissed, his pale face spotted with freckles. His red surcoat flapped in the breeze, the falcon sigil of the North family worked in eye-catching silver. Andry’s own was gray quartered with sky blue for Sir Grandel. “I was Sir Edgar’s squire. It’s my right to know.”

Andry kept silent. Even stupid Lemon knew the story being passed through the halls of the palace, the falsehoods born of the Queen: Jydi raiders, a slaughter in the hills of the border. Other rumors were being woven too. The most popular was a Treckish ambush meant to look like the Jydi, soldiers disguised in furs with axes instead of swords.

“You have the right to be quiet, Lemon,” he said. “Show some respect to our lords.”

Lemon bared his teeth. They were yellow as his hair. “There’s our Andry, too good for the rest of us.”

He didn’t flinch. It was a familiar gibe, easy to ignore, following him from his earliest days as a page. And a compliment, even if Lemon is too stupid to know it.

“Is that why you’re still alive? Too good for the Jydi wolves to howl over?” Though Lemon was a head shorter than Andry, he was far broader and used his bulk well. He shouldered his way past, knocking Andry aside. His voice rose, loud enough for the other squires to hear. “You wouldn’t see me on the Hill, with my lord dead and me still walking the Ward. That’s for certain. Can’t imagine the shame of it.”

Andry flushed darker than Lemon’s surcoat. Lemon did not miss it, leering at him, goading him to respond.

I feel that shame every day!he wanted to shout back. But he kept silent, his teeth locked tight, his feet still marching in time with the rest. He’s never seen true battle. None of the squires have, Andry knew, glancing around at his fellows. Though they marched together, the others felt so far away. They don’t know what it’s like.

Lemon glared, dagger-eyed.

He’s only jealous. I rode with the knights while he stayed behind.

The envy goes both ways.

Again Lemon knocked his shoulder, and again Andry did nothing.

There are worse things in this world than you, Davel Monne, and they’re coming for us all.

The procession reached the sector of the Hill reserved for knights of the Lionguard, who spent their lives protecting the royal family of Galland: Sir Tibald Brock. Sir Otton of the Castlewood. Sir Konrada Kain, the only woman to serve in the Lionguard, who fell defending her king at the Battle of the Lanterns. Andry wondered if their ghosts would be here to welcome their brothers and guide them into the realm of the gods.

But the ghosts of Sir Grandel and the Norths are far away, if they even exist at all.

A pavilion looked over the grave sites, its chairs empty, shaded by a canopy of green silk. The Queen and her own entourage had not yet arrived.

While the knights dismounted, their squires moved in a flurry to grab reins and tend horses, allowing the lords to line up in their ranks. The pages kept out of the way, shunted to one side. Of the squires, only Andry, Lemon, and Sir Raymon’s boy, Karl Daspold, had no one to serve. Karl was as kind as Lemon was cruel and kept himself between the two. A dog trailed at his heels, a shaggy yellow hound. It looked up with baleful eyes, waiting for a master who would not return.

Three wagons brought up the empty caskets, each hung with silk. Red with the silver falcon for the Norths, gray and sky blue check for Sir Grandel. A detachment from the palace garrison escorted each wagon as it was wheeled into place aside the pavilion. Even before the arrival of the Queen, Andry guessed there were near a hundred men and boys gathered to pay respects. Sir Grandel would have liked that, he knew. Sir Grandel had flourished under attention.

The Queen arrived with a somber call of trumpets. Andry glanced over her entourage—Lord Konegin and his trollish son were easy to recognize, and Lord Thornwall was known even to the pages. As the supreme commander of Galland’s great army, he lived in a grand set of rooms in the palace barracks and visited the yards often. Knights and squires alike bloodied each other hoping for his attention.

Right now, Andry only wanted to be forgotten and overlooked. He lowered his eyes, praying the rest of the great lords and ladies passed without paying him any mind.

But it was impossible to ignore the Queen herself. When she dismounted her horse, everyone knelt. Andry glanced up through his lashes, glimpsing Erida of Galland. His jaw clenched again, this time with frustration.

The Lionguard surrounded her, their armor like the sun, their cloaks catching the warm breeze. Andry saw the faces of Sir Grandel and the Norths beneath every helm, their eyes unfocused, dark, dead. As all will be if we don’t do something.

Light bounced off the steel, bathing the Queen with a heavenly glow. Her gown was cloud gray, the royal color of mourning in Galland. It gave her pale skin a moonlit pallor. A red jewel hung from her neck, a ruby bright as new fire. As she looked over her knights, her piercing blue gaze snagged on Andry, and she held his stare for a long moment.

Despite the summer heat, Andry felt a cold finger trail down his spine. He dipped his head again, until all he could see were his own feet and the grass between them. The blades rippled like the sea. Andry pictured his mother on a ship, her face turned southeast.

We will go to my mother’s family. There is a ship from Ascal to Nkonabo. She’ll be safe with Kin Kiane, and from there I can return north.

Andry Trelland had ridden to Iona before, and he remembered the way to the immortal city. Up the river, past granite cliffs and the yew forest, deep in the glen. He swallowed, terrified of what must be done. To leave his mother, ill and alone, while he returned to the place that doomed the rest? It felt like the height of stupidity.

But what else can I do?he thought, his stomach twisting.

I can tell the Elders what befell us in the hills, what comes from the temple. Certainly they will defend what Erida will not.

And they will know what to do with the Spindleblade.

The service began, but Andry heard little of it. The whispers rose once more, too familiar, his only constant since the slaughter at the temple. In spite of himself, he watched Erida again. The whispers sharpened.

Say nothing; keep your distance,they said, howling with too many voices, all brittle as ice. Shadow the sword; hide its brilliance.

The summer wind blew cold, catching the flags of Galland. The Lion seemed to leap in the sky. At the pavilion, the Queen and her ladies clutched at their gowns. Andry shivered down to his toes.

Spindleblood and Spindleblade.

This time, the voices were as one: an old woman, rasping like a knife through silk. It almost sent Andry back to his knees. Shock kicked him in the gut, but he could not react, not here before a hundred eyes. Before the Queen, still watching him with her sapphire stare.

Even while willing the voice away, his hands fisted at his sides, Andry strained to remember it. But the voice was like smoke, twisting through his fingers, impossible to grasp. Disappearing in one breath of wind while flaring in another.

It curled again, seemingly all around him.

A new hand comes, the alliance made.