SPEAR
“You’re late.” Luka looked up from belting his ceremonial sword around his waist. Captain Blane Kemp stood before him. The pounding rhythm of the tassa drums dropped in volume as the captain released the heavy drape behind him. The disapproving look in his father’s dark eyes made Luka’s blood heat. Disappointed in me yet again. Gaiea grant that someday I manage to pour myself a glass of water without causing you offense. Luka turned his attention back to the buckle.
“The princess took it into her head to spend time in the Old Tower.”
“And how is it she managed to get that far before you missedher?”
“It was before breakfast. I was in the gayelle at sword practice. You know—that thing other soldiers do occasionally.” He finished with the belt. His father took a step toward him, his ownlacquered armor clanking softly. In the center of his breastplate was the symbol of the Daguard and the court of Dun; a dagen-cat poised on its powerful back legs, ready to attack. The captain’s pointed helmet was entirely metal, unlike his armor, and sat easily on a head shorn of most of his hair.
“Watch your tongue, soldier, and remember who you address.”
How can I ever forget? Luka clenched both hands into fists against the center of his breastplate and bowed. “Forgive me, Captain. I will be sure to carry out the change of shift outside her room from now on, so that she does not slip her guard.”
Blane sighed and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “What have I done to hurt your damned pride now?”
“Only taken me from my men and assigned me to kick my heels in the barracks of the most well-protected court in Gailand.”
Blane rested a heavy hand on Luka’s left shoulder. “It is well protected because of the women and men who protect it. The Dahomei have given us charge of members of the royal court for the first time. We cannot afford to be lax or negligent in our duty.”
Nonsense. Everyone knew the Gate prevented anyone who intended harm to the Court of Hamber from entering. No weapon could pass under its arch without being detected. The armed Dahomei and Daguard on duty at the Gate this night wereobliged to steer clear of the specially protected Grand Hall. Even now, he was forced to wear a ceramic sword—as was every other royal court’s guard in attendance at the Ceremony— to prevent the court from alarming all night. In light of such powerful magic, where was the Court of Hamber’s urgent need for his services?
Luka tried to hold his tongue but could not help himself. “I am a good soldier, Father. Did I not lead victoriously in battle against the Ragat scum for the last three winters? Did I not prove myself worthy of the Daguard?”
“You fight well, and you have the gift of the mind-touch. You would not be a Pride Leader otherwise,” Blane replied.
“Then why do five Palms of the Dahomei and Daguard ride without me? Captain Natan chose me to join fifty of our best warriors, yet you refused his request. How have I so offended you that you would deny her the experience I could have provided? Why punish me by assigning me to the princess?”
“Punish you? By allowing you to serve at the most important Ceremony of our queen’s rule?” Blane shook his head, a slow smile spreading across the hard angles of his broad ebony face. “Is it punishment to teach you the value of humility? Skilled soldier that you may be, you are but nineteen, and have much to learn. The time will come when you sicken of war.”
“You always speak in this manner to avoid giving me the answers I need,” Luka said through clenched teeth.
A fanfare cut the air like a clean knife, and cheering and applause rose in the hall beyond.
“Then think on these answers as you serve your punishment,” Blane said, pulling him to the curtain. “Should I send every good Pride Leader to our farthest borders and leave our High Court guarded by common soldiers? What greater duty, what greater reward can there be for a soldier than to protect your sovereign?”
He pulled Luka close enough to whisper in his ear. “I am also trying to protect you, my son. Never forget, the life you have can be taken away if someone asks the wrong questions. And people do not ask questions of members of the royal court.”
Captain Kemp thrust aside the curtain, and light and warmth poured through into the narrow alcove, though not enough to counter the cold that ran under Luka’s skin after his father’s words.
“We will speak later, where there is less chance of being overheard. For now—go to our princess. By keeping her safe, you ensure your own safety. Do you understand?”
Throat too tight to answer or ask the questions that swirled in his head, Luka nodded, then stepped from the shadows into the light.
* * *
Viella was so captivated by the change in the spacious but usually empty Grand Hall, she almost missed the moment Luka appeared on her right, silent and wearing glimmering armor from head to foot. Captain Kemp followed, positioning himself between the queen’s throne and Viella’s. The soldier he replaced walked down the stairs to stand guard in an inconspicuous alcove.
A vein pulsed in Luka’s jaw and his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword. The tapering point of his helmet made him look like the tip of a weapon, she thought.
Light blazed from torches and candelabras set in the walls and ceilings. The floor of the hall was tiled in red and yellow mosaics depicting tiny scenes of dancers and performers. Columns rose in two rows on either side of the room, forming small alcoves where miniature stages featured tassa players, limbo dancers, and Gatka—women stripped down to bands of cloth over their breasts and between their legs who weaved and bent, evading swift sticks and wooden shields as they performed their warrior dance. Their lean muscles glistened with gold-dusted oil as they moved.
Pierrot Grenades dressed in fluttering multicolored rags, faces painted beneath brightly colored hoods, displayed their knowledge with impudent rhymes and wordplay that made guests laugh and applaud loudly. Moko Jumbies dressed in a rainbow of tunics and pants that went down to the ground strode above the crowd on their stilts, some dancing on one leg while holding the other above them. Most of the jumbies were teenagers, trained at a special school and fearless in their youth. In the alcove nearest the stage, a band led by Freetown’s best calypsonian played the most popular songs in Dun on steel drums and tamboo bamboo—which were bamboo stalks cut to different lengths and hit with sticks and pounded on the ground to make rhythmic beats.
Down the center of the hall, table after table made two parallel lines dressed in flowing red and gold linen and covered with curried meats; rotis and sada; peas and rice; roasts; stewed and geera pork; desserts like fried, crunchy kurma and milky sweet barfi; spiced prunes and candied coconut with hibiscus wine and bittersweet mauby.
The most important rulers in Gailand, dressed in their finest cloth and jewels, stood to applaud the High Queen as she entered. Pride made Viella feel twice as tall.
Queen Elise acknowledged their regard with a smile and a graceful bow of the head as her lord consort came to stand before his smaller throne trimmed in red velvet and gold. She sat and waved her arm for the gathering to do the same, the tinkling of her bracelets lost in the celebratory noise. Chairs creaked and cloth whispered like so many trees in a high wind, until only the Daguard, the servants, and the attendants of each court remained standing, dressed in their court colors like so many gaudy statues.
Viella was taking her seat at her mother’s right hand when a horrible feeling swept over her. Her breath started to come fast, her heart thrummed faster and faster, and her vision blurred. But it had nothing to do with her. She was certain of that. Something had gone terribly wrong with Valan. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to catch her breath as she scanned the area behind the throne, and rest of the hall, looking for him.
“My Sister Queens,” her mother began as Viella found a familiar face in the crowd. Lady Sophia sat at the table nearest the lord consort’s throne, dressed in white and green that complemented her delicate complexion. Sitting beside her was the Augur, wearing the colorful embroidered silks of her office, intricate beaded jewelry hanging from her neck, hands peeking out from long, bell-shaped sleeves. Frowning, Viella thought about getting up to go look for Valan. He’s worried… and so scared. I have to go to him.
Do not think it, a whisper intruded in her mind. Remain exactly where you are until the queen says otherwise.
Lady Sophia had gone against her own instructions and used first the mind-touch to read her, and then the mind-speak.
I thought you didn’t want me using mind-speak yet!
If you insist on being mischievous, I will make an exception. You are not schooled enough in the consequences of your talents to practice them without permission. Now, pay attention to what the queen is saying.
Why were adults always telling you not to do what they were doing themselves? It was quite annoying.
Because we sometimes actually know better than you.
Viella wanted to respond, but she caught movement in the corner of her left eye and turned to see her brother standing next to his father, Mordach close behind him. Valan had changed into a tunic and trousers of royal blue and gold that matched her sari. A golden dagen-cat curled over his heart, and pearls and embroidery decorated his cuffs and high collar. He glanced across at Viella and gave her a small distracted smile before he sat in his chair, his gaze resolutely facing forward.
She breathed a sigh of relief. He looks just like he always does. She could still feel his emotions were high, but she understood then he must have been nervous about the Ceremony, only more than she’d realized. Something confused her, though.
That’s not the entrance from the dressing room. Did he go back to Mordach’s study? She shook her head, amazed at the idea of willingly spending that much time at lessons.
A burst of applause made her jump, and Viella realized her mother had reached the end of her speech. “And now to Gaiea’s bountiful feast while we enjoy the entertainment sent to us in lieu of an appearance by my sister queen, Salene of Kadoomun, and graciously escorted here by the Lady Ashwin of Seat Jinn.”
Her mother inclined her head in the direction of a frail-looking young woman seated at the same table as Lady Sophia. A tiara glittered in her light-brown hair, and diamonds glittered against her long neck and from her ears. Her yellow, silver-trimmed sari seemed to swallow her small body. Next to her was the tall, dark-haired Lord Consort of Jinn, dressed in black robes with a diamond-studded collar and cuffs.
A slender young man stepped into the open space between the stairs to the throne and the tables. His entire body glittered with silver dust, and he wore loose silver trousers that billowed around his ankles. The table drums began their sharp, hypnotic rhythm. The bare-backed, round-faced man sitting cross-legged as he beat one of them sang a song in one of the Old Languages in a high, piercing voice. The boy swayed, sinuous as grass in the wind.
Entranced, Viella leaned forward, aware that everyone in the court had grown silent, captivated by the dipping movements of the glittering arms, and the strength in the stomping, flashing ankles. More than once, she caught the eye of the dancer—Did he smile at me?—and sometimes she held her breath as he twirled like thistledown, or leaped high, like dagen-cats at play. When the dance ended, the applause seemed to lift the roof to the heavens. Everyone stood, some calling down blessings on the anonymous boy. The Lord Consort of Jinn had a satisfied look on his face.
“Wonderful, simply wonderful,” Viella heard her mother say, and there was a murmur of agreement from her father as they both rose from their thrones. Viella continued to applaud, ignoring the stinging that had set in. The boy bowed deeply to the throne, then his head raised and his gaze settled on Viella.
Come. The voice twisted around her mind, seeped into her muscles. Come. Viella gasped and trembled before the power of the plea; she tried to form a thought and failed.
Come.
Something clanged to her right. Viella sensed Luka turn his head toward the sound. She moved toward the stairs, still clapping.
“Viella?” Her mother’s voice sounded far, far away, drowned out by the whispered plea. Come to me.
Something glimmered by the boy’s right hand. He’s holding a candle? A torch? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she obey. She started to walk faster.
The boy raised his arm, still smiling, the glittering thing beginning to take shape now.
Viella!
The thought slammed into her, smashing the command in her mind like glass. Luka? A shout carried across the court. She groaned, holding her aching head, and tripped on the final stair, dropping to her knees. Something flew over her head, and she flinched instinctively, putting her hand down to steady herself. She twisted, blinking, and felt her mind clearing, sunlight breaking through mist. Luka stood on the stairs, his hand on his sword—but then Viella saw her mother and screamed.
Her mother was staring, bewildered, at the silver spear jutting out of her stomach. She touched her hand to it gently. Then, red blooming on her pink sari, Queen Elise crumpled to the floor.
From The Nightward by R.S.A. Garcia, published by Harper Voyager. Copyright © 2024 by Rhonda S. Garcia.
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