Page 16 of Kingdom Of Veil And Vow

“Well if you moved faster, you wouldn’t have to worry about getting hit.” His sword arcs through the air, the motion impressively fluid. He fights as well now as he did a decade and a half ago. I leap back and intercept it with my own sword, the reverberation of the hit shaking my shoulders. “And I may be old, but I can still hold my own.” We push back from each other, chests heaving in unison.

The corner of my mouth twitches as I nod. “That you can.”

With an unspoken truce in place, we both grab waterskins from the ground, the cold liquid quenching my thirst as I turn my gaze out over the rest of the guards sparring. This field is one of three large spaces where the men can gather to train, different sections denoting different specialties. Training with swords and shields takes place in the center. Farther to the left, away from the castle and near a large stone wall, are targets for archery practice. Opposite of them and even farther away is where the artillerists train, using large sacks of flour for the catapults.

In a building near the barracks, mats and roped-off rings are stationed for indoor fighting. Instructors of Grayson’s age teach the use of specific weapons that are less common than swords and daggers there as well. I asked him once why he wasn’t there teaching. It came with more pay and was a position that meant he would be the least likely to be ordered to battle, should one ever come. What’s the point in teaching a new round of recruits what the king wants from them if we are just going to topple his reign anyway? He’d said the words with a rough smile tugging at his mouth. Let’s get you on the throne first, and then I will worry about guiding the next generation. The mention of the throne had made my chest clench then, just as the memory does now.

Rising against King Dolian and ensuring he can never hurt anyone again has always felt right. So has finding like-minded men and women in my quest to make this kingdom a better place. But sitting on the throne? Asking that they call me king? All that has ever done is make my stomach churn.

“What?”

He shrugs, eyes squinting against the bright morning sun. “You tell me.”

I keep my face carefully blank, poking the tip of my training sword into the soft grass near my feet. The bastard knows me too well. “I checked in with the shifter,” I start, casting my gaze around to ensure no one is close enough to hear us. Pairs of men spar nearby, but they are all focused on their opponents, the clack of their training swords providing a thin layer of protection from being overheard. “She is getting better, thanks to Tienne.”

Grayson nods, wiping sweat off his brow. “Did she give you anything?”

“No.” The curtness of my response draws an arched brow from him, but I simply shake my head. “It’s going to take time.”

“Of which we do not have much.” He leans over to set the waterskin back on the grass. “The king waits, but so do our people.” I nod, the same eagerness that motivates them flowing in my own veins. So many people have been hurt by the king, and so many are looking for their own piece of retribution. Sometimes, I wonder if they truly understand what it means to have a man’s death on their hands. If the bloodlust that glows in their eyes would be dimmed when the king’s ichor splashed over them. Then again, I often fantasize about feeling it run over my own hands as I drain the life from him, drop by crimson drop.

“I will get the information we need to ensure we can act when the time is right.”

Grayson’s gaze holds mine, seeing the small slip in my mask but graciously choosing to ignore it. “Are you ready for today?” Right. I think about lying, but around my oldest friend, there is no point.

“No. But I will handle it as I always do.” At this, Grayson nods, though the corners of his mouth tilt down just slightly. Not wanting to linger on the thought of going into Vitour later, I toss my waterskin to the ground and lift my sword higher, settling into a fighter’s stance. “Let’s go again.”

Vitour is rich with the scents of the local merchants. Everything from charred meats to pressed flowers dances through the air, attempting to mask the more subtle foul odor that lingers just beneath. Sweat, death, and a tang of iron filter through my nostrils as I walk the crowded plaza with Grayson at my side and Brisk close behind, ignoring the gazes that are drawn our way. My hand rests lazily over the hilt of my sword, and though I keep my gaze forward and my jaw relaxed, tension dances along the ridge of my shoulders.

The sun is bright and unobstructed by clouds, gleaming off of our golden armor and turning us into beacons as we make our way past all of the wooden carts and run-down businesses lining the open road. I fucking hate this armor and its gaudy color. Hate everything that it represents.

“Is it just me, or is everyone staring at us more than usual?” Brisk asks, his voice a low murmur that just barely travels over the chatting townspeople.

“They are upset about the draft,” Grayson answers, turning to the side to avoid hitting a mother carrying a baby on her hip, a basket barely filled with produce balancing on the other. She glances at the ground as we pass, and my skin prickles at the hint of fear I see in her eyes. “Their main sources of income are about to be drawn away, leaving mothers and sisters, grandmothers too, to pick up the slack in order to survive.”

“Can’t say I blame them.” Brisk and Grayson continue their conversation, but their voices become a distant hum in my ears as my heart begins to ricochet in my chest the deeper into the city that we get. I intend to avoid looking at the shop that is coming up on our right, but like a moth drawn to a flame, I can’t help but let my eyes travel there. The wooden sign hanging from the door is the same one that was used at every place my mother worked. Inara’s Alterations. I shiver, sadness and longing and unbearable guilt slicing through me as easily as the blade that left the scars at my back. The asshole wouldn’t let my mother rest in peace, and I have no doubt that he sends me to the army’s sanatorium because he knows I have to pass this place on the way. That it’s unavoidable.

“Xander.” My name is muffled, a shout echoing down a well. When a hand lands on my shoulder, I immediately spin, my sword half drawn as breath wheezes between my clenched teeth. My gaze meets Grayson’s calm brown one, Brisk’s wide blue eyes boring into me with surprise and concern. “It’s okay, son.” Another hand presses against my hold on my sword, forcing it back into its sheath. My fingers tingle, and my chest aches, and fuck, I can’t breathe. I see her in my mind’s eye, hunched over, bleeding onto the grass. Her lovely eyes on me. Hand reaching out. My muscles tense, the urge to run towards her overwhelming. All-consuming. Shadows eclipse me, the ground beneath my feet moving. Grayson shakes me, his mouth forming words that disappear before they reach my ears. I push him away from me, my hands falling to the tops of my knees as I squeeze my eyes closed. Get it together. I hold my breath and count to ten. Over and over again. Enough. It takes a stubborn amount of time, but the reprimands eventually work, and like I’ve emerged from being stuck underwater, my head clears and my eyes open again. The scenery has changed, my armor now scraping against the stone of a building that I lean against, the stained wood of another in front of me.

Heat flares up my neck and straight to my cheeks at the realization that I’ve had an attack in front of Brisk and Grayson, though the latter has seen so much worse. I pull my helmet off and tilt my head back, tucking strands of disheveled hair behind my ears and wishing that I was anywhere but here. Any person but myself. I had told Bella that I was free. What a godsdamn lie.

“What happened?” Brisk asks, earning a look from Grayson that promises a grueling training session for asking. But when he looks at me, I give him a small nod—permission to share only the barest details.

“Xander’s mother used to work as a seamstress before she caught the king’s eye. That shop was hers.” Brisk’s eyes soften in understanding, and I might tell him to wipe that look off his face if it weren’t for the fact that I know he does understand. Neither speaks again until my breathing has calmed and feeling has returned to my fingers. I put my helmet back on before running my hands over the weapons that are strapped to me, ensuring they are all in place. Silently, I lead us back out to the main road, into the fray of people shopping and bartering, my internal shields once more in place.

When we make it to the sanatorium, I welcome the sting of astringent heavy in the air, my mind finally wiped clean by the sharp odor. The three of us split up, talking with the healers who manage the sick. The sanatorium is a multi-level structure that was specifically built to house the King’s Guardsmen hurt during battle, but seeing as there hasn’t been a war in over two hundred years, it has instead become a place to care for and study those dying from the Cruel Death.

I’m led by a healer with bright red hair and freckles that dot the bridge of his nose and spread out onto his cheeks. He takes me up and down rows of men in varying states of emaciation, the effects of the Cruel Death still horrifying no matter how many times I’ve seen it up close. With a new total of the affected in hand, I wait for Brisk and Grayson just outside the building, my fingers tapping along the hilt of my sword to keep myself distracted.

“Final count?” Grayson asks when he joins me, his helmet off and hair mussed as if he’s run his hand through it a hundred times.

“First floor is sitting at fifty men affected, twenty of them a day or so away from dying.” I shake my head and gaze out over the bustling square. “No new developments on what might be causing it or why.”

“A similar number on floor two,” Brisk chimes in, hands bracing his hips. “Though most of the men are recently diagnosed.” I have grown accustomed to the sound of grief in someone’s voice, and I hear it woven into Brisk’s.

“Third floor is where they’ve started bringing the women.” I glance at Grayson from the corner of my eye. He chose not to marry or have kids of his own but is an uncle to two nieces already in adulthood. I know fear of them contracting the Cruel Death weighs heavily on his mind. “Thirty women, including three that are pregnant.” He swallows roughly, slipping his helmet back on. “They aren’t there,” he adds, speaking of his nieces. His relief is palpable, and I silently thank the gods as we begin our trek back towards the castle, our solemn moods keeping our tongues held in place.

Grayson takes up my left side as we walk through the center of the square, and though my eyes inadvertently move towards my mother’s former shop, the older man’s armor is all I see. I blow a breath out through my nose, irritated that the king forced me to come here. That the reminder of my mother caused an attack. It’s why I created my very first rule after I watched her die because of a choice I made. Never show weakness. To King Dolian, that’s what my mother was to me. And I think, in return, she represented the same to him. Despite his absolute refusal to claim me as his legitimate heir, the king had always loathed that I loved her. That I risked my life willingly for her. He used her as a tool to control me until his own jealousy despised even that.