A dance of steel and sha.., p.1
A Dance of Steel and Shadow, page 1
Aimee Johnston
A Dance Of Steel And Shadow
Copyright © 2022 by Aimee Johnston
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
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Contents
Dedication
Map of Olundrin
A Stranger at the Gates
The Warrior’s Proposal
Apples & Animosity
Steel & Magic
The King of Klavar
Levendell
The Eternum Vale
An Unexpected Offer
The Fallen Queen
Dancing with the Enemy
Broken Pride
The Alchemist’s Lair
The Lord of Penran
Ursulet’s Regret
The Spoils of War
The Violone
A Promise of Peace
Hesitation
The Ways of Klaves
Storm-Tossed
Cake & Compromise
Unforgivable
Regret
Vespera’s Duty
Rise & Ruin
The King’s Mistress
Shadows & Secrets
Confession
A Broken Promise
The King’s Curse
The Queen’s Travail
Darkness Falls
Enlightenment
The Cleaver’s Downfall
Foretold
Defeat
The Late Healer
A Heavy Price
The Last Heir
The King’s Promise
Death-Defying
About the Author
Also by Aimee Johnston
Dedication
For my Grandad
who would have been proud
Map of Olundrin
A Stranger at the Gates
Like most young ladies, Vespera Winsward had a head full of dreams. But unlike the others, her dreams all ended the same way. Escape.
She had spent the entirety of her twenty years cooped away behind the stone walls of Falver Castle, a fortress as far away from anything as it was possible to be. Mama liked to call Falver modest. Vess preferred to call it a prison.
The castle had everything anyone could hope for from such a place. Its formal gardens were brimming with beautiful flowers spilling from its beds, with a host of bees and butterflies busy at work amongst the petals. The fountains tinkled with ice cold, clear water, fresh from the nearby mountains, and the pretty little woodland at the rear of the estate was full of deer and, in spring, blanketed in bluebells as far as the eye could see. There was a stables of well-trained saddle horses, and though Vess was free to ride through the grounds to her hearts content, she had never passed under the portcullis and out into the wild world beyond. It was forbidden.
Inside, there were all the usual amenities. A grand dining hall, which was never full. A disused ballroom, with dusty chandeliers and little else. And countless, empty bedchambers. Vess spent rainy days trailing through the empty, echoing halls, and she might as well have been a ghost for all the people she saw. But, there was a library, where she and her older sister, Ethy, took their lessons. It was as close to a family room as they had. Mama even sat beside the cheerful fire every afternoon, with a tea service and a plate of biscuits as she supervised her daughters’ studies at the stern hands of their various tutors.
It was important, Mama insisted, for the girls to be well versed in dancing, singing, music and embroidery. These were all the qualities a nobleman looked for in a wife, and she still deluded herself that her daughters would make fine matches, courtesy of their father, the king.
But Vess knew better.
The king may indeed have sired them, but he rarely troubled himself to visit. And besides, which great lords would be desperate enough to lower themselves so, marrying the king’s illegitimate daughters, when there were plenty of young ladies of excellent breeding, with titles and rank and reputation? Vess and Ethy were all but peasants to the preening, puffed up lords and ladies of their father’s court. A shameful secret, the product of the king’s scandalous affair. The best they could hope for was a marriage to a lowly gentleman, tempted by the promise of a generous dowry, to pay off his gambling debts, or else fritter away on expensive clothing, so he might appear in court and impress the king. If that was all she had to look forward to, Vess knew she would only be trading one stifling prison for another.
She wanted so much more.
Sometimes, she would climb to the ramparts and gaze out at the vast, rolling lands beyond their walls. Empty, yes, but full of promise. She had studied the maps in the library, she knew what lay to the east, across the sea. With the wind whipping her hair, she could close her eyes and almost imagine she was aboard one of those fine ships she had seen illustrated in her books, the ones with billowing, white sails. She could pretend she was standing at the prow, watching the approaching horizon growing ever closer. Her freedom. The continent. A mass of land so huge it was impossible to contemplate, where countries were separated by invisible lines, not swathes of water. Where people of all races and colours and tongues could meet. Where adventure no doubt waited.
And though she was loathe to admit it, even to herself, she sometimes let herself imagine the handsome stranger she would undoubtedly meet, the one who would fall in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her. He would appreciate the sharp tongue and disregard for rules that so often had her in Mama’s bad books. Perhaps he’d be the captain of a ship, or a merchant, or even a simple farm boy. It didn’t matter. As long as she was free, as long as they were madly in love.
But on the day a stranger rode through the gates of Falver, things turned out to be quite different.
* * *
Vess was in her bedchamber when the commotion drifted in through the open balcony doors. Faint shouting and clamouring from the courtyard below. Vess laid down the box of sweets she had been rifling through, and slid from her bed, taking a moment to smooth her rumpled skirts before heading to the balcony.
Ethy had never understood why Vess had chosen a room overlooking the courtyard, when there were so many empty ones with views of their sprawling estate at the other end of the castle. The nights were quite often lonely, and a little too quiet, surrounded as she was on all sides by disused chambers, with Mama and Ethy choosing to sleep with the gardens in view, but during the day, she could watch the servant’s to-ing and fro-ing, and the guards performing their rounds on the walls. On the very rare occasion a visitor arrived, perhaps Papa with his host of favourite courtiers in tow, she had a perfect view of them riding through the gates. But as far as she knew, Papa had not written to inform them of a visit, and nobody else ever came to Falver. Nobody ever left. So, it was with her brows bunched together in confusion that Vess leaned on the balcony rail and watched as the portcullis was drawn up.
Moments later, a white horse trotted into the courtyard, and Vess felt the world sway beneath her. The horse snorted wearily as it stumbled to a halt. The rider, slumped in the saddle, fell forwards, slowly, and made no move to break his fall as he crashed to the cobbled ground. But Vess couldn’t tear her eyes away from the hideous red stain marring the horse’s neck and shoulder. A stain that looked terribly like blood.
Her grip on the rail tightened, her already pale knuckles turning bone white.
Guards swooped down upon the too-still form laid on the ground, blocking him from view. The horse tossed its head in protest briefly, but soon allowed itself to be led away by one of the stable lads.
Vess stared for a moment, before tearing her eyes away, and fleeing through her rooms. The hallways beyond were as silent and empty as ever. She hitched her skirts up and ran. Her heart was hammering erratically by the time she gained the staircase, but she trotted down, her palm sweaty on the cool, wrought iron rail. She made it halfway down the last flight before the doors burst open, and six guards staggered inside, a limp form draped between them, his head lolling grotesquely.
The stranger’s shirt was glistening darkly, clinging to his skin, but even from her vantage point, Vess could see the tear in the fabric, the gaping wound beneath, a great slash across his chest.
She clamped a shaking hand over her mouth.
The guards carried the man up the stairs, none bothering to look at Vess as she pressed herself against the rail. She tried not to notice the dark, shining spots they left in their wake.
Ethy appeared in the hallway below, her horrified expression mirroring Vess’ as she stared at the blood splattering the black and white chequered tiles.
She lifted her wide eyes to Vess, and without the need for words, they both started up the stairs, after the guards.
* * *
The doctor was called, but they didn’t need to wait for him to know the stranger was going to die.
He had been taken to an empty bedchamber, where he lay still and silent, oozing over the formerly pristine, white sheets. Vess dared a closer look at his wound, but her breakfast rose sharply to her throat, and she was forced to look away. Not soon enough though. She could have sworn she had glimpsed bone in the pulsing depths of tat tered flesh.
“Vess.” Ethy watched her with round, green eyes. “Isn’t there… couldn’t you do something?”
Vess looked away, shame burning her cheeks. She should have been able to help. Ethy was the prettier, better mannered of the two, but Vess had supposedly been blessed in other ways. She had been born under the watchful eye of Sana, goddess of healing, and Mama insisted she had been given the gift of magic.
Magic had once been commonplace amongst her people, long ago. Yet even then, when everybody from the lowliest urchin to the highest lord had commanded a wealth of power, healers had been rare and precious. These days, even the frailest drop of magic was considered a gift. And Vess, inadequate though she was in singing and embroidery and fine manners, did indeed have more than a drop of healing power in her veins.
But not enough. Not nearly enough. She didn’t need to look at the stranger’s wound again to know it was beyond her. A scratch, a minor kitchen burn, those were the things she could mend. Not this. Her years of study and practise under her magic tutor had been all but wasted. No amount of bullying or threats or cajoling from Mama could have summoned the power needed here.
She was spared having to respond to Ethy’s quiet plea by the arrival of Mama, who bustled, brisk and determined, into the room. She surveyed the stranger coolly, and to her credit, she did not balk, though she clasped her hands together before her chest and muttered a prayer.
The quiet creak of leather announced the arrival of Merrin, the aged captain of the guard. His lined face was solemn as he halted beside Mama.
“Ah, Merrin. The doctor has been sent for, I assume?”
Merrin dipped his chin. “He has, my lady. He is on his way upstairs at this very moment.”
“Very good, though it does look rather bleak. See that the walls are manned, the gates secure. Whoever did this cannot be far, this looks… fresh.”
“Already done, my lady.”
Mama nodded in approval. Merrin may be getting on in years, but he hadn’t lost his wits quite yet.
Vess’s eyes drifted once again to the stranger in the bed. He was so young, barely older than her. And now he was going to die. The injustice of it licked at her insides like scorching flame.
“Who did this?” She demanded.
Mama and Merrin exchanged a glance but did not answer.
“I don’t understand,” Mama burst out after a few of moments heavy silence. “Why was there no warning? Did we not have sentries posted?”
“Of course we did.” Merrin gave a weary shake of his head. “But we’ve heard nothing. They haven’t reported back.”
“Why are we posting sentries, Mama?” Vess asked in a low voice. They were hiding something. Something important, judging by the blood soaking into the mattress. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing for you girls to concern yourself with,” Mama retorted smoothly.
“I beg to differ,” Vess snarled, waving a hand towards the bed. “There is a man dying in our home. Sentries have been sent out and not returned. Whatever you’re looking for, I’d say it’s already here, and I am concerned.”
Mama bristled, straightening her spine. She opened her mouth, no doubt to send Vess to her rooms without supper, but Ethy shifted closer to Vess, slipping her hand into hers.
“Tell us, Mama.”
Mama had never been able to deny Ethy anything. Her shoulders sagged. “Oh, very well, I don’t suppose it matters much. There has been some trouble along the north-eastern coasts.”
“What sort of trouble?” Vess could have sworn Ethy shivered beside her.
“The usual, raiders from Klavar. Filthy thieves, they are. They’ve been bothering our coastal settlements since the dawn of time, it would seem. The gods know, if they would only put as much effort into their own land as they do ours, they wouldn’t need to bother coming here at all.”
Vess knew Klavar was a bleak, barren country to the north of the continent, jutting out into the cruel ocean.
“But we’re leagues from the sea,” Ethy squeaked. “What does it have to do with us?”
“Nothing, for the most part. The Klaves are a nuisance more than anything, and one we don’t have to trouble ourselves with here, gods be praised.”
“I don’t understand. What is the point of this story?” Vess prompted, her brow furrowing.
“The point, my dear, is that a few years ago, Klavar’s king died. His son succeeded him, and, unfortunately for us, he has taken the rabble to hand. What has always been a handful of uncoordinated raiders has been taken and turned into a considerable army.”
Vess’s mouth went dry.
“An army?” Ethy breathed, in fear and awe.
“An army intent on the fall of Olundrin,” Merrin piped up.
“Yes, thank you, Merrin.” Mama shot the captain a withering glare. “Now, as I said, you girls are not to trouble yourselves. It’s nothing your Papa cannot handle. He will beat them back into the sea with their tails between their legs, you’ll see.”
Vess was not convinced. She turned her attention back to the dying man, her hand slipping from Ethy’s as she took a few tentative steps towards him. Had the Klaves done this? Had they made it so far south? This man could not have ridden far in his state. Whoever had done this was nearby.
The man’s eyelids flickered, and Vess felt her mouth fall open as his weak gaze found hers. She hadn’t realised he was conscious.
“Run,” he rasped.
* * *
It was too late to run.
Not half an hour had passed since the stranger had been transferred to the bedchamber, the doctor come and gone, before Merrin’s handsome young son, Nasyr, burst into the room, panting breathlessly.
“My lady! You’re needed at the wall. The Klaves are here.”
Vess turned her wide eyes to Mama, who stood pale and rigid beside Ethy.
“How many?”
“Five hundred at least, my lady.”
Without another word, Mama disappeared from the room in a flurry of skirts. Ethy threw one frightened look at Vess, before following Mama out.
Nasyr hesitated. His dark brow creased with concern.
“I’ll stay here.” She tried to offer a reassuring smile, but her lips twisted into a grimace. “It won’t be much longer.”
He nodded and left her alone with her silent companion.
She had tried her best to numb his pain, but how effective she had been, she could not say. His eyes flickered from side to side beneath his closed lids, and blood trickled occasionally from his open mouth, where his breath rattled in noisy gasps. She looked on helplessly. Death would surely be a mercy. If she could not heal him, would it be so wrong to grant him a different sort of gift? To end his suffering and ease him gently into death’s waiting embrace?
Her magic stirred in answer to her unspoken question, an inquisitive flurry, a warm kiss of power threading to her fingers.
She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms, pushing the sensation away.
No. She could not help him, one way or another. There was nothing to be done, other than hold his hand and mop his clammy brow. But she would stay with him until the end. She could do that, at least.
His eyes fluttered open again.
“Still… here?” The words seemed to cost him dearly, as he convulsed, coughing raspingly.
“Shhh.” She laid the damp cloth over his forehead. “You should rest.”
“Rest will come… soon enough.” His lips twisted painfully into what may have been an attempt at an ironic smile. He was not wrong.
“What’s your name?” she asked. She could not bear that he should die here, so far from home, with nobody he loved around him, and without even a name of his own.
“H–Holimar.” He coughed again, turning his head away as blood spattered his pillow.
“It’s alright, Holimar. My name is Vespera, I’m going to stay with you.”
He shook his head weakly from side to side. “No. No, you need… to go.”
She should encourage him to lay still, she knew that, but she had to know what he had seen.
“What happened to you?”
“Klaves,” he wheezed. “Battle. Wol–Woldon Moors. The king… dead.”
“Which king?” she asked urgently. “Holimar? Which king is dead?”
But he broke into a fit of coughing, his brow furrowed in pain as his shredded chest convulsed again and again. His breath whistled as he sucked in air between splutters, blood spilling over his chin.
