Destined for a King Read online

  “If you are concerned about me running to your enemies, I have not.”

  “The Ironfist is not yet near this keep, or my scouts would have brought word. And when he comes, he will bring a host. I cannot have you wandering about the countryside unescorted.”

  This level of concern for a mere ride was beyond her experience, but then the lands about the keep had always been relatively safe. He is not used to safety. The thought rolled over her as true. Based on what Brother Tancrid had told her, based on her experience as Jerrah, Torch had spent his entire life looking over his shoulder—berated falsely as a bastard, concerned someone might discover his true identity. Magnus may have made a show of burying a queen and a prince, but behind all that, his spies had spent years scouring the countryside for news, ever quietly, lest people ask too many questions and hit on the truth.

  Fear. Magnus fears this man. A shiver passed down the back of her neck.

  “As long as you allow me a chance for a ride now and then, I can bring an escort with me.”

  “You will not leave unless it’s in my own company, or Kestrel’s. And you cannot go with Kestrel now. He has left us, too.”

  The statement hit her like a blow from a bludgeon. “What?”

  “By all appearances, he has defied my order and gone after my sister when I need him here.” Torch stepped closer, filling her field of vision with his presence. “I can do nothing about that now. You’ve yet to tell me why you felt the need to sneak away.”

  “I grant you, I preferred to ride out on my own today and suspected I would not be permitted to do so had you known of it. As for what I was about, I simply paid a visit to an old friend.”

  “And who is this friend?”

  “Brother Tancrid, one of the Acolyte order.” A Son of the Earth, whatever that meant.

  “Acolytes? There are Acolytes here?”

  “Not at Blackbriar, but near enough. When I was child, Brother Tancrid lived at the keep and taught me my letters and numbers. He also knew a great deal of history.”

  Torch opened his mouth and closed it again, while a glimmer of understanding dawned on his face. “And you wished to ask him what he knew of the circumstances when Magnus stole the throne?”

  “That, and I wanted to find out if there was any possible way you might prove your claim. Because even if you defeat Magnus, you will have to win over the other Strongholds. Their warleaders will want proof you are who you say you are.”

  “And who is this Brother Tancrid that he should know so much of my doings and the events at Highspring Moor?”

  “I did not think to ask. He’s always…well, he’s known. If you’ve heard of their order, you know they seek and preserve knowledge. He used to tell me the most amazing stories. I just assumed he’d know of this, and it seems he did.”

  Torch went rigid, almost wary. “Then what did he have to say about this proof?”

  “That there was none, at least that he was aware of. Magnus’s claim was based on his father’s marriage to his mother being legitimate, and since it came before your father was born, the throne passes to him. If he possessed proof enough to convince the others at the time and depose your father—”

  “He did not depose my father. He murdered him.” His vehemence made her step back. He couldn’t have remembered this. He couldn’t have witnessed it, or he would not have been left alive to recount this tale now. And yet he spoke with the conviction of one who had seen.

  “But the others did nothing to stop him. Were he in the wrong, the other lords would have risen against him.”

  “Which did not happen, clearly. He held the power. He’d raised a large enough army that the remaining lords would not dare oppose him. Any who did could easily have been replaced by followers more faithful to Magnus’s cause. I merely intend to right a wrong by visiting the same treatment on him.”

  “And how will you convince them you’re right?”

  “Through this.” He reached behind his back and drew his sword. The rays of the setting sun glittered on its edges, making flames appear to dance along its length. “And where would a bastard such as I obtain a sword like this?”

  “You might have won it in a tourney or taken it from another.”

  “But there’d be witnesses in that case. This sword has not been seen for over a century. My mother took it out of the palace when we escaped. She kept it for me until I was old enough to heft it, and made me vow to avenge my father’s blood with it. In the end, I shall need no more proof than Magnus. I will depend on the power a weapon lends me. A weapon, a host such as I might raise, and the will of the gods that right might lead me back to where I belong.”

  A pretty speech, true enough, and it didn’t come off as rehearsed. But would it be enough? In the end, they were mere words, but if his blade could back them up…Still, the cost would be high. He’d already lost a brother to this cause, and perhaps a sister as well.

  “I suppose the question remaining now is, are you with me or not? Did your tutor tell you enough to sway your good opinion?”

  “Brother Tancrid tells a fine tale, but he’s always left the final decision up to me.” Or so she’d always felt, even if she was aware her tutor might have painted the facts with subtle hues to persuade her to one side or the other without her realizing. Still, she saw no reason why he ought to sway her to Torch’s side.

  As a smaller keep and one not easily defended through its natural setting, Blackbriar had always kept its position by relying on its stronger neighbors. Her father had depended on his allegiances for his defense. And shouldn’t a maiden in her position do the same?

  Which meant, logically, she ought to choose the man currently in power over a potential victor. Ought to, but her heart told her no, and nothing Tancrid had recounted to her this afternoon changed that position.

  A known, one she could deal with, one honorable after his own fashion, over an unknown.

  And she’d seen him with his men. She’d witnessed the mercy he’d shown his newly conquered subjects. Nothing about his reputation seemed true in light of what she’d seen of him. The only question still open was whether he was fit to rule, but he’d no more experience at ruling than Magnus had when he’d assumed power.

  But he is fit to command. You have seen that.

  “And have you reached a decision, my lady?” He posed the question lightly enough, as if the reply mattered not at all. But she knew it did. Even if his Stone and its visions ought to give him the confidence that her choice would turn his way. He ought to swagger, but none of his usual arrogance showed in his tone.

  And that, more than anything she’d heard and seen since his arrival, swayed her opinion.

  —

  Torch found himself leaning forward, practically standing on his toes as he waited for Calista’s reply. For some reason it mattered. Well, of course it mattered, but not on the expected grounds. Certainly, he wanted his intended bride to go along with his plans, to fit in with them willingly. It would make the upcoming days much easier if he didn’t constantly have to convince her of seeing things his way. If he didn’t constantly have to seduce her.

  Not that he’d have minded that aspect. And he could still set aside some time for such things. Now, if necessary. Oh, yes.

  But it shocked him how deeply he wanted her to voice her consent and become his bride. As if she believed in him and what he was attempting. As if she cared beyond the confines of her keep. As if she cared on a much smaller scale as well. As if she cared for him, the man.

  And how long had it been since he’d had that? Outside his family, never. His mother, his brother, his sister cared for him on that level, naturally. His men, certainly, but that wasn’t the same. They respected and admired him as a leader, as the rightful king. None of them cared for him the way a woman ought to care for a man.

  The way his mother had loved his father. He only had her stories, of course, but somewhere on the fringes of his imagination he recalled deep, chest-wrenching sobs in the night.
He’d waken to the sound to find darkness still enveloping the world and known his mother was mourning the loss of his father. He’d heard it as well in the way her voice softened whenever she remembered him, whenever she’d told her son about his sire.

  And he recalled the way she’d gazed on her twin babies. He’d barely reached his sixth birthday when they’d arrived, but the look in his mother’s eyes as she’d watched her babes sleep, the soft caresses of her fingers on their fat cheeks, the way she could study them for hours…Somewhere he’d known. This was her last connection to the husband she’d loved. Especially Griffin, to whom she’d secretly given their father’s name.

  Griffin. Damn it all. The thought reared up and plowed through his gut like a sword thrust. Their mother would be devastated when he told her the news. But when he did bear her that particular tiding, he’d accompany it with a gift—Magnus Ironfist’s heart.

  She deserved no less than that revenge. For as he grew, Torch came to realize how rare such a thing was. Lords and ladies made matches for allegiances, for power, to cement alliances, and if they could tolerate each other, it was considered a stroke of luck. Those who came to love were rarer still. Even among the lowborn, the kitchen wenches and stable boys eyeing one another with lust when their masters’ backs were turned, even their affections often didn’t last longer than a night’s pleasure.

  He’d observed. He’d experienced that sort of fleeting tenderness himself. But somewhere deep, he’d wanted more, even if he knew such an occurrence was unlikely.

  But damn it all, if Calista accepted him of her own free will, accepted not just the alliance, but him, the man, that was a step in the right direction.

  And he hadn’t even realized how important it was until this moment.

  Her shoulders lifted on an indrawn breath. “I will marry you.”

  He released a stream of air. Somewhere in the back of his head, a rapid pulse beat—his own blood rushing through his veins, faster than usual.

  “Why?” The gods help him, he had to know.

  She raised her brows, and she turned her head to regard him from the corner of her eyes, as if she were afraid to give the wrong answer. “Because you’ve ordered it, and you’re my lord.”

  His heart dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach, where it lay like an overly rich meal, but he would not let his disappointment show. He moved work harder on seducing her higher on his list of priorities.

  “Well, yes, naturally.” There, that sounded sufficiently casual. “And you’re a good girl who always obeys her lord.”

  Her lips parted, and a burst of laughter exploded from her. “If you want to believe that, I’ll certainly not disabuse you of the notion.”

  He raised a brow. Surprising, how easy it was to retreat behind a façade of nonchalance. “Oh, ho. This sounds like an interesting conversation. Are you trying to imply you’ve been naughty at times? Pray, tell me about them.”

  Gods, he sounded like Steelsleet’s younger son, who went through women faster than he went through his quarterly allowance.

  “You’ve just caught me sneaking back into the keep, and you have to ask me about my other transgressions?”

  The implication behind those words caused the smile to fade from his face. But she’d been a maid until last night. She couldn’t have been slipping off to meet with lovers. “You’ve just confessed to meeting with a man who swore a vow of chastity. Hardly a high point on anyone’s list of sins.”

  She gazed up at him from beneath her lashes. “I think I’d rather hear about yours.” Gods, where had that throaty note in her voice come from? It streaked straight to his groin. “Perhaps we can compare.”

  He placed a hand beneath her chin and tipped her face toward his. “I think that is something that is better demonstrated, don’t you?”

  Her lips parted, an invitation he couldn’t have resisted if he wanted to. He hadn’t brought her back here with the explicit intention of seducing her once more, but the moment his mouth fitted over hers, it was all he could think of. Their bodies fitting together as easily and as naturally as their lips. Hands, bodies, tongues all moving as one until their clothing melted away and they lay in a sated tangle on her bed.

  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.

  Chapter 16

  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?”