The Vampire Queen Saga: Books 1-3: (The Vampire Queen Saga Boxset) Page 5

  She shook her head, tugging on a strand of hair. “It’s foolishness, Palin. We can’t afford an expedition.”

  He placed his hand on her shoulder. “We can’t afford not to. Please, Danika, I need your help. It’s only you and I now. There’s no one else I trust. I need to know you’ll watch our family’s affairs until I’m back.”

  He’s going, she realized. I should have known as much. It’s the pull of that damned sword. He can’t resist it. Sighing, she nodded. So be it. “Fine, but I’m coming with you.”

  “But—”

  “I’m coming with you,” she insisted. “You’ll need me to arrange the sea travel. The shipping guild will take advantage of you.”

  “It’s too—”

  She placed her hands on her hips and stared him down. “I’m coming!”

  “The estate, our lands?”

  “Reeve Holm will run the estate while we’re gone, just as he does when we’re here.”

  He opened his mouth to make another protest, but she saw the resignation in his eyes. When she set her mind to something, she usually got her way. She was the elder child, the firstborn. She had practically raised Palin after the death of their mother.

  Palin nodded, his excitement shining on his youthful face. “Let’s go have an adventure.”

  She smiled. Father Craftsman, help me. I hate Greywynne Island.

  Chapter 7

  Owen

  Looking down from the hilltop above his family’s stables, Owen felt his gut tensing. He bit his lower lip and sighed to himself, certain that coming had been a mistake. Sitting back on his palfrey, he watched Keep-Lieutenant Sayer and Dilan ride down the path ahead of him. From there, he could smell hay and horse manure, which brought back too many memories. Tall stalks of grass blew in the breeze, like rolling waves. A handful of young horses ran together, simply for the pure joy of going fast. The stables, large enough to house more than a dozen horses, stood apart from the barn and his family’s farmstead—no, Orin’s farmstead. It was no longer Owen’s home.

  He kicked his palfrey’s flanks, urging the horse into a trot and quickly catching up to the others. Their visit wasn’t going to turn out the way Sayer thought it would. Orin was quick to anger, but he understood all too well the value of silver.

  Near the stables, Sayer and Dilan were already dismounting. Gibbs, one of the hired boys, came running to take their mounts. He paused midstep when he saw Owen. Just for a moment, a look of surprise flashed through his eyes, replaced a moment later by a huge grin that exposed a gap between his teeth.

  Owen handed Gibbs his reins and then tousled his mass of thick hair. “Is he here?”

  “Aye,” the boy said, glancing nervously at the farmhouse, his grin vanishing.

  “And Tanda?”

  “She—”

  The boy’s head spun about as the farmhouse door banged open. There, standing in the doorway, his face a mask of barely controlled rage, was Owen’s older brother Orin. Five years separated them, but the family resemblance was clear. Orin shared Owen’s blond hair, a gift of their mother, but Orin’s was long and stringy where Owen’s was cut short in the military style Keep-Captain Awde demanded. Both brothers were tall, thickly built, with their father’s wide shoulders, but Orin was already going soft about the belly. Their eyes met, and Orin grimaced.

  Sayer stepped forward, his hand held out. “A good day to you, Horsemaster,” he said.

  Orin made no move to shake his hand. “He’s not welcome here. You should know that. Was your duke what sat in judgment on him.”

  “He’s your brother, man.”

  Orin hawked and spat on the ground. “Are you here to deal?”

  “I am.” Sayer cast an uneasy glance at Owen and Dilan before returning his attention to Orin.

  Owen sighed. He would have told Sayer, if Sayer would only have listened.

  “Then come inside like a civilized man,” said Orin. “That one, though—he can wait outside with the pigs.”

  Owen raised his eyebrows and smiled. “It’s good to see you, too, brother.”

  Sayer shook his head at Owen before putting his hand on Orin’s elbow, trying to lead him away. “Your house, your rules, Horsemaster, but I’m here on the duke’s business.”

  “Duke’s dead.”

  “His son, Palin.”

  Orin scowled and turned away, clumping back up the wooden steps, dragging his left leg behind him.

  Sayer paused to address Owen and Dilan. “I won’t be long.” Then, he followed Orin inside the farmhouse, closing the door.

  Owen sighed, glancing at Gibbs. “See to the horses, lad. Some water, some hay.”

  The boy nodded and secured all three animals to the hitching post before darting off to do as instructed. Owen stared at the stable’s entrance. Inside, horses whinnied. He turned to face Dilan, who like Owen, was wearing a ring-mail coat, half-helm, and castle-forged sword.

  “Coming?” Owen asked.

  Dilan, a bored expression on his face, nodded. “Why not?”

  Owen removed his half-helm, ran his fingers through his short blond hair, and set the leather-and-iron helmet atop his saddle. The stable was cooler inside, out of the sun, and the moment he walked inside, the smell of hay and horse manure washed over him, bringing back some happy memories. Fat green flies buzzed about his head, but Owen paid them no mind. That old stable was as much home to him as the farmhouse. Eight horses occupied fewer than half the stalls—palfreys mostly, a few colts, and some mares.

  Dilan followed him inside. In the days since joining the Dain garrison, most of the other men had kept their distance from him, the consensus being that Dilan, despite his claims, was either a deserter or a liar. Few—other than Owen and Fin—believed he had actually fought at Prophet’s Bridge, let alone been a member of the Rams. For his part, Dilan seemed completely uninterested in the other soldiers’ opinions of him, keeping to himself, but Dilan had saved Owen’s life, so Dilan had a friend whether he wanted one or not, and any friend of Owen’s was a friend of Fin’s, so he actually had two friends.

  A loud whinny came from one of the far stalls where a large black colt, easily sixteen hands high and well muscled, raised his large head and snorted.

  Owen sauntered over, a grin on his face. “Well, hello you.” He ran his hand over the colt’s large head and down his neck.

  The horse wheezed and coughed, a wet, mucous sound.

  “Sounds sick,” Dilan said from behind him.

  “Aye, he does.” Owen ran his eyes over the colt.

  Big and strong, the animal was also shaking, but so softly that it almost went without notice.

  “What’s your story, I wonder?”

  “I was going to ask you the same.” Dilan leaned against one of the wooden support beams. “You don’t seem too popular around here.”

  Owen snorted. “You should talk.” He scratched the stubble on his chin and looked about. A large pile of hay lay nearby, and he pulled out several strands and held them to his nose. He dropped the hay and brushed his hands against his pants. Glancing about, he noted the poor state of the stables. “He runs this place like everything else in his life.”

  “Your brother?” Dilan asked.

  Owen grunted.

  “You two not close?”

  Owen smirked. “You notice his limp?”

  “Hard to miss.”

  “A year ago, about a month after our father died, Orin beat our little sister, Tanda, saying she had misplaced one of his pipes.” Owen fought down his anger at the memory, surprised he was still so bitter. “He broke her jaw… so I broke his leg—seemed fair to me. The local magistrate didn’t agree. Neither did Duke Oskaley. Gave me a choice: banishment or soldiering for five years. So, here I am—man-at-arms for the Dain garrison. A professional leg-breaker rather than an amateur one.”

  Dilan laughed, picked up a piece of straw from the floor, and placed it between his teeth.

  Owen reached over and yanked it from Dilan’s mouth and th
rew it on the ground, shaking his head.

  Dilan’s eyes tightened in surprise, but he looked away. “Seems your brother still bears a grudge.”

  “He’ll carry that grudge longer than his limp, and he’ll have that for the rest of his life.” Owen flashed his teeth at Dilan. “I broke his leg really good. Should’ve heard it crack.”

  “Don’t seem too disturbed.”

  Owen opened the stall door and slipped in beside the large colt, running his hands over the animal’s flank. He placed his ear against the horse’s chest and listened, murmuring soft assurances to him. “Orin was always a bully. Used to beat me, too, until I got bigger… a lot bigger.”

  “So, if your brother hates you so much, why’d Sayer bring you along?”

  Owen paused, eyes closed, listening to the colt’s heartbeat. It was strong, fast. Too fast? After a few moments, he opened his eyes and saw Dilan was still watching him. “Sayer thinks he’s clever. Thinks that if he brings me along, Orin will become flustered, angry, and distracted enough to make a bad deal.”

  “Told you that?” Dilan’s large bushy eyebrows rose.

  Owen shook his head, closing the stall behind him. “By now, I’m sure you’ve heard the others call me Horse-boy?”

  “Cause you’re a big guy, right?”

  “Part of it, but mostly cause they figure if I’m this big, I must also be as dumb as a horse.”

  Dilan shook his head. “I didn’t think that at all.”

  “Well, lots do, including our keep-lieutenant. He doesn’t tell dummies like me what he thinks, but it took me about two seconds to figure out why I was coming today.”

  Dilan rolled his eyes and snorted. “Must be something to Sayer if a warrior like Brice Awde trusts him.”

  “If you say so.”

  Both men turned as a young woman with straw-blond hair rushed into the stable and threw herself at Owen. He paused for only a second and then hugged his little sister tightly. She looked good, tired but healthy. That day, she wore a simple blue dress, her long hair free about her shoulders, her cheeks pink with youth. Soon, she’d be married, Owen knew. She was getting to that age. Orin would have to find her a suitable match, or—less likely—approve one of her own.

  He stepped back and held her at arm’s length. “You shouldn’t be here. Orin will be—”

  “Busy for some time yet. I don’t care. I wanted to see you. I’ve missed you.”

  “And I you, little one.”

  Tears filled her eyes, and she rushed in again, burying her face in his shoulder. “You’re going away?”

  “Greywynne Island, but we’re to be back before the snows come. It’ll be an adventure. I could use an adventure. Soldiering is not what people think. Long walks along cold walls.”

  When Dilan coughed, Owen stepped back. “Tanda, this is my friend Dilan. He saved my life.”

  Dilan bowed, taking Tanda’s hand and kissing it. “My very great pleasure.”

  Tanda blushed. “We heard all about the Ballards. May Father Craftsman bless you, Dilan.” Then she punched Owen in the shoulder, mashing her fingers into his ring mail. “And you, you great oaf, you must be more careful.” She rubbed her fingers.

  He smiled, raising his hands to ward off further blows. Then he sighed, his eyes moving past her to the stable’s entrance. “Now, go back inside… before Orin comes.”

  Worry tightened her eyes, and she glanced over her shoulder. “Listen, your officer isn’t… well, he’s not—”

  “Sayer’s a buffoon,” Owen said, “but he’s harmless.”

  “Orin’s going to sell him Gale,” she whispered, her eyes going to the black colt behind Owen. “But Gale has the heaves. He’s not worth the coin. You must warn your officer.”

  Owen inclined his head, placed his hands on his sister’s shoulders, and kissed her forehead. “Thank you, Tanda. Now inside, quickly.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t make me break his other leg. I can’t take a decade of garrison life.”

  Her lower lip quivered, and she rushed forward and hugged him fiercely one last time, as if she’d never hold him again. Then she turned and bolted, running for the stable entrance, kicking up a small cloud of dust and straw. Owen watched her back, hating his brother even more at that moment.

  “Sayer will want the black,” Dilan said.

  “Aye, he will.” Owen returned to the stall with the black colt. “Gale,” he whispered. “A good name. Orin isn’t as clever as he thinks, never has been.”

  The colt whinnied, stamped his hoof against the hard ground of his stall, and then farted. Smiling, Owen moved away from the colt and leaned against a beam near the entrance where he could watch the farmhouse. “And what of you, Dilan? You had a brother.”

  Dilan ran his fingers through his freshly cropped curly dark hair. Sadness flashed through his eyes, and Owen regretted asking.

  “Artur and I were closer than you and your brother,” Dilan finally said. “Now there was a soldier.” He met Owen’s eye. “Not like me—a good one. Man could fight like a bear.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Dilan made a noise more like a grunt than a word. “Have you and your brother always been at odds?”

  “When we were younger, it was different.” Owen stared past Dilan, at the motes of dust dancing in the beams of sunlight coming through several of the ill-fitted slats in the walls. “But people change. Life changes you. Orin became very concerned with money, with his future.”

  “Most men do.”

  “It’s just money,” Owen said softly, almost to himself.

  Dilan grunted. “Tell that to someone who doesn’t have any.”

  Owen chewed his lower lip. “As boys, Orin and I used to ride out together on the grasslands, camping for days at a time.” He shook his head at the memory. “I’d love to go back to those days, the freedom. Now, everything is duty and drilling, endless boring watches on castle walls.”

  Dilan was watching him. “That’s the life of a soldier, Owen. It’s what we do, and it’s far better than the killing and dying part.”

  “Maybe, but I never wanted this. I’ve always wanted to travel, to see the world, the sea—and that’s the worst of it. Orin knew that, but he still asked the Duke to swear me into his service as penance for breaking his leg, claimed I needed a calming hand, a purpose for my violent nature.” Owen snorted, staring at his palm. “And now I truly do have blood on my hands.”

  “The Ballards were trying to kill you, Owen. You had no choice.”

  Owen nodded. He still remembered the jolt in his arm when he had stabbed Trystan, when the dagger punched through the man’s flesh. Sayer might have finished him, but Owen had been the one who really killed him. Owen was still lost in memory when Sayer and Orin walked into the barn.

  Orin moved right past Owen, ignoring him, and went straight to the stall with the black colt, Gale. “He’s big and only two years old. He’ll grow stronger yet, you mark my words.”

  Sayer stood beside Orin, assessing the colt. As he did, he rubbed his goatee with thumb and forefinger, pulling on it. “He’s wheezing a bit.”

  “It’ll pass. He’s young yet.”

  “All right, this one, then, and the other three we’ve already decided on,” said Sayer. “Eighteen silver crowns.”

  “Twenty-five,” said Orin. “And I’ll throw in two draft animals.”

  Dilan stiffened, but Owen met his eye and shook his head. Dilan’s eyes narrowed in confusion, but Owen shook his head again, and Dilan said nothing.

  “Twenty, and you can keep the draft horses,” said Sayer. “We’ve enough draft animals on the island as it is. We’re going to need horses strong enough to carry armored men for scouts. And with the sea voyage, bigger animals can stand to lose the weight better.”

  “Done,” said Orin.

  Sayer spat in his palm, and the two men shook hands. Then, Orin glanced at Owen quickly and smirked in triumph. Sayer turned to Owen and Dilan. “Prepare this o
ne and three others the stable boy can show you. Come, Horsemaster, let’s count coins.”

  The two men turned and left the stable.

  Dilan raised an eyebrow. “Twenty crowns for a horse that will be dead in a month? Why didn’t you say something?”

  Owen walked back to Gale’s stall, opened the door, and reached down. He stood up again, holding a handful of hay. “Because this big boy doesn’t have heaves, Dilan. There’s nothing wrong with his lungs. Orin’s been saving coin by using shit hay. This lot’s rotten with mold.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Owen ran his hands down Gale’s flank, smiling at what his brother was losing. “I’m sure. This brute—all by himself—is worth thirty coins at least.”

  Chapter 8

  Danika

  Danika’s eyes flashed open, and she sat up and stared at her door, letting the covers fall from her, exposing her skin to the cold night air. The night was warm, so she had left her window open, but she thought she had heard something, someone moving about in the solar, the sitting room just outside her bedchamber.

  Fully awake, she slipped from her bed, her heart pounding. She wore only a short cotton shift that barely reached her knees, but she quickly tiptoed barefoot across the cold wooden floor to her bedroom door. Placing her ear against its surface, she listened carefully, wondering if she had only dreamed of the noise. When she heard a chair softly scraping across the floor of the solar, she knew she hadn’t been dreaming. Someone was out there—someone trying, and failing, to move silently.

  She scanned her bedchamber, looking for a place to hide. Darkness cloaked the room, the only light coming from a half moon outside her open window—nowhere to hide. She slid back against the doorjamb so that when the door opened, she’d at least be behind it and out of sight.

  A moment later, the door cracked open, and a large shape slipped into her bedchamber—a man. Even in the dark, even from behind, she could tell it was a man, and she was sure she knew who it was. From just behind him, she could hear his quick, heavy breathing.