Retribution

CHAPTER ONE

Prin ducked another blow from the fighting staff and decided to verbally harass the one-footed combat master long enough to catch her breath. “You don’t visit Maude’s house nearly as often as you did when I was twelve.”

He leaned on his staff, using it as a cane to support himself. “We’ve been doing this five years and you still have much to learn. However, I don’t come as often not because I’m getting old, which is untrue, but because for the last year or so, both you and Sara regularly send me home in pain. I need time to heal from your unprovoked punishments. Twice Maude has used her magic skills to mend my broken ankle, my only good one, and once a broken arm, and so many scrapes, cuts, and sprains I’ve lost count.”

Prin answered heatedly, “Hey, you don’t give us any leeway either. We fight to survive your sessions, or you’ll hurt us just as badly—or worse.”

“My job. Come on, be honest. Maude tends to my injuries as often as yours these days, and sometimes she treats all three of us at the same time. Complaining?”

Prin shot back, “Sure, she treats us while detailing our shortcomings and telling us what we should have done to protect ourselves. I noticed you even replaced your wooden foot with one more flexible because you needed more speed to keep up with us.”

Prin crouched and waited for his next attack, holding the staff horizontal, ready to defend or attack. She hoped to anticipate his move. He feinted left, but she watched his belt buckle, not his shoulder or staff. Where the buckle went, so did he. But this time the feint was not a feint. He followed through with the action, somehow knowing she would think he was going to reverse his attack. Only the shift of his good foot warned her too late of the blow that struck behind her neck.

She went to her knees. She’d lost to him again.

He scoffed, “The old follow the belt buckle advice, huh? It usually works. Those who use it, usually survive—if usually is good enough for you. Put that sorry book in the fireplace where it belongs.”

“You wrote it,” she protested.

“Well, I don’t know where you found a copy of that old thing, but if you’re going to use my own instruction book against me without thinking I’ll figure it out, you’re wrong. Getting back up or quitting?”

“I know you want me to stop our practice for the day because an old man like you probably needs to take a nap or something.”

“Ah, trying to provoke me? Remember girl, when you used to call me a cripple?”

She managed to reach her feet, the staff still in her hands as if they were glued to it. “I remember calling you that name one time and then taking two days to recover from the beating handed me.”

“Four days, if I remember right.”

“Your ancient mind is slipping.” She swung the staff from the relaxed/defensive position, knowing he would effortlessly knock the end aside with a casual swipe. But as she allowed him to, the other end swept across both of his shins. Somehow, he’d moved back one small step, and her staff missed his legs.

He let his weapon drop to the ground with a disgusted sigh, as he headed for the door. “Was that the best you could do? Knives tomorrow? Real ones, none of your enchanted cheaters.”

Prin stood in the back garden alone, bruised, battered, tired, and happy. Not many men, knights, soldiers, warriors, or assassins could have survived the punishment she’d absorbed today. Not one in a hundred. She glanced at the window and saw Sara, probably wondering if Prin needed urgent medical care.

Sara had also grown more than competent with most weapons—and with her bare hands. She was not as dedicated to daily practicing as Prin, but as a bodyguard, few others were as accomplished. A combination of three major fighting skills coupled with magic made the attractive young woman deadlier than most. She neared twenty-three-years-old and attracted the attention of any male within sight, but between her sorcery and combat training, she had little time left over for men, or the patience to deal with most.

Prin also attracted more and more attention from eager young men, now that her actual age neared nineteen. The warrior lessons kept her lean, robust, and able to defeat a king’s knight, the combat master told her. Besides, instead of mastering just two or three weapons as they did, she had been forced to defend herself against table knives unexpectedly thrown in her direction at dinner. Twice she had been jabbed with fork tines while eating, she’d ducked chunks of firewood hurled at her head, branches swung like clubs and more. The combat master knew few bounds. Prin had practiced with swords, knives, spears, arrows, staffs, and more. She learned to attack and defend. She gave no quarter.

But neither would the assassins that still pursued her.

The choice of weapons aside, the combat master believed a warrior seldom had the opportunity to choose what to fight with. If attacked, Prin had to fight with what was nearby, which was most likely her bare hands. He’d taught her to slip past a larger opponent’s offensive moves and attack instead of defend, fast and furiously. She wouldn’t box toe to toe—because she would lose due to her smaller size. Warriors often weighed twice what she did. She would hit and run. Or, just run.

Take a swing at her, and she might step inside the blow and let a flurry of punches fly, none hard enough to take down an enemy by itself, but six or ten solid jabs might. Shove her shoulder, and you’d find her foot between your legs. Instead of resisting, she went with the balance. That’s what the combat master called it. Balance. Push her to the left, and she’d go left, but she’d swing a balled fist or aim her booted heel at your head. She’d done it so many times it came naturally.

Maude called from the door, “I have the medical kit ready.”

Prin limped inside, not bothering to hide her injuries. Pride was okay, but it had its place. So did self-defense. Prin had sworn she would never again be helpless in a confrontation. She sat in the usual straight-backed wooden chair as the old-appearing sorceress asked her where it hurt this time.

“Everywhere,” she groaned with the old joke. “Do we have to study magic today?”

Maude made a growl deep within her chest. “Do we get to study magic today, is the proper way to phrase that question, my dear. And the answer is, no. Want some better news?”

“I could use some.”

“A little bird told me a particular ship was spotted at the harbor entrance.”

“Brice’s ship?”

Sara let out a whoop of joy and raced to their side, any injuries were forgotten for the present. “We need to get dressed and call for a carriage and go meet him. It’s been months!”

Maude said, “Prin, you need some light healing, first. I already have a carriage on the way, and we’re only waiting for you to get dressed.”

Prin watched Maude try to withhold the smile, knowing she would fail because Brice’s returns always turned into parties, with the three of them competing to draw the most information from him. He told wonderful stories, wild tales, and provided news of people they hadn’t met, but hopefully, would. He relayed the politics of Prin’s homeland of Wren, and of the city of Indore, and the people there. He had grown from the waif of a mage they encountered at sixteen to a handsome, intelligent young man who was learning mage skills between voyages to gather information.

After his first trip to Indore and back, he’d told them that their old friend El, who had put them on a ship that eventually carried them to Gallium. He had taken possession of the guard dog Prin had bought at the bazaar in Indore, and from what Brice claimed, she was going to have to find another because of the bonds they’d forged. Oddly, that simple information eased her mind more than many other news items.

At last count, Brice had placed the Green Ring of Friendship on five fingers—but more importantly, through contacts of Maude and her circle of sorceresses, there were now four similar rings in circulation. A total of fourteen people now wore a green shimmer on their left ring-finger, people from all lands, recognizable instantly as friends by any sorceress.

Two years earlier, Maude had taken her and Sara shopping to a part of the public market they’d never visited. Another sorceress spoke of a woman there who wore the shimmering image of the magic ring. Maude hadn’t told the girls what to expect, and as they strolled from stall to stall, they came across the woman.

Prin didn’t know what to do when she spotted the green glow! They’d never discussed what would happen if they actually encountered someone that had been determined to be a friend that would risk his or her life for anyone else with the ring. They were family. No, better than family. They were trusted, perhaps the rarest quality of all in a person.

Maude had stood aloof and refused to help with the awkward meeting. Finally, Prin took matters into her own hands and approached the woman who was selling fine ribbons of varied colors, widths, and textures. She fingered one and asked for the same ribbon in green, hoping to provide a clue for the woman to recognize her.

The ribbon seller was not a sorceress; thus, she couldn’t see the glow on Prin’s finger, and didn’t know who Prin was. She presented Prin with several options of green ribbons. Prin teasingly held a thin one higher in the air, and allowed it to wrap around her left ring finger as she said, “Wouldn’t this make a delightful ring for a true friend?”

The woman’s actions had stilled as if she were sensing where the conversation might lead. “It might,” she said cautiously.

Prin continued, “Of course, it might leave the image of a green ring on my finger—one that would be hard to get off, if even possible. But, a true friend might come along and help me when I need it.”

“Can you see anything on my finger?” The question came hesitantly, and warily.

Prin paused, teasing the woman a little more as she said, “Of course I can see your finger.” Then she relented, “I can also see the green band. I am Prin, a sorceress.”

“Hello,” the woman said slowly.

“These are Sara, and Maude,” Prin continued. “All of us see you as an unknown friend by the green glow on your finger. I’m sorry for teasing you, but it was so fun.”

“Thank the gods for small things. I was told about the ring of course, but since I can’t see it … well, it’s hard to believe.”

Maude gestured at the hill where her house was located. “The three of us live up there, and my nieces and I are well-known to the locals, and it’s easy to find. If you ever have need of us, all you have to do is ask directions. You may send a messenger or come yourself for a friendly visit and try one of our rare varieties of tea.”

“We’d love to hear your story,” Sara said.

“I am Julia, a friend of Irene, who is a sorceress from Jakarta. She lives there near the harbor. I’ve known her since we were children and only recently come to Gallium.”

Since that day, they had met the ribbon seller several times, fortunately never because of any requirement for help. But the idea that there was a woman in the market who would join them in any confrontation, or assist them in escaping assassins, gave comfort to Prin in a way she hadn’t previously experienced.

The treatment and medicinal spells Maude administered, along with the news of Brice’s return, had Prin on her feet, dancing to her room for a quick change of clothing. No magic school for the day, no fighting lessons, and Brice’s ensuing return promised the usual pleasant, exciting time.

Prin chose to wear pale yellow because it complemented her brown hair. Sara liked forest-green although her hair was the same brown color. Prin kept hers longer and tied back, but the shades and textures were the same, the magic making them appear unmistakably sisters—which was untrue. Magically colored hair was not the only concealment spell they used. While Sara had advanced in real time from eighteen to twenty-three, Prin had appeared eighteen for the last five years, as she grew into her real age, all part of the disguise used to hide her.

It was her plan to hide and defy Princess Eleonore, the wealthy wife of submissive Lord Jeffery, until the time to return to Wren was right. The behind-the-scenes revolt Eleonore led against King Harold continued to flare into open warfare in Wren. Several younger mages banded together with her in open revolt against the recognized crown. Several battles had occurred but the King still held on to his rule, and Princess Elenore, whom Prin had never met, had fled into hiding years ago.

Several royals high on the line of succession had died under mysterious circumstances in the last five years. However, Willard and Henry, the two elderly men directly ahead of Prin in line for the throne still survived, as well as the king’s son. Prin remained number four. Elenore five.

Prin thought back to three years ago when Brice brought word that Evelyn, the sorceress who lived at a workshop built in a hollow tree, had escaped when the young mage entered her village. Brice had located her, and she now wore the green ring, too. Prin had become so used to the faint green glow on her finger she didn’t see it anymore unless something drew attention to it. Sara confessed the same. But to any sorceress they included in their circle, the band identified them. They felt it was one of Prin’s better ideas.

Sara danced back into the main room, twirling as she kicked one leg high into the air. “I can’t wait to see Brice again.”

Maude sat in her usual seat, knitting, even though neither Sara nor Prin had ever seen a completed project. When Maude paused to lift her always ready teacup or roll her yarn into balls, the needles continued to work at a flying pace.

Prin asked about it once.

Maude had said, “The knots of the knitting are fashioned in such a way that a simple spell can bind them into capes for children. When I complete a stack of them, and winter draws near, I pass them out to children playing on the streets in the poorer sections of Gallium.”

That was all she said. And all she needed to say.

When Prin finally emerged from the house, they piled into the waiting carriage like schoolchildren going on a field trip. It was late spring, the weather was warmer than normal, and the carriage driver had the top raised to protect them from the sun. They talked and giggled like schoolgirls on the ride, eagerly anticipating another bout of ingenious stories, interesting comments about places Brice had been, and even more thought-provoking tales of people he’d met.

The excitement and activity of the port, with hundreds of ships loading and unloading cargo from nearby ports and cities so far away that the names were unknown, gave the area a feeling of celebration and wild parties. People in strange dress were more common than the dull clothing worn in Gallium, along with strange accents, and even stranger languages, and customs.

As the carriage pulled to a stop where the driver would wait, Prin noticed the long robes and imperious stance of a lurking mage. He was watching the crowd, as they always did, searching for Hannah, the missing princess of Wren. Generally, they quickly decided Prin was not the person they wanted, but this mage acted differently. He had been leaning on a pole that held up a tent while watching those passing by. Now he stood and walked directly at the three women.

Prin ignored him. He was young and probably overly confident and stupid, determined to use his emerging skills to impress them, as young men often do when around pretty women. His hostile movements and posture told her she could defeat him in combat a hundred ways—in only a few heartbeats. He had no idea of the danger he was in.

“Ladies, if I may.” The words were innocent, but the tone cutting and demanding. He threw his arms wide as if he intended to forcibly stop them, a slight curl of a cruel smile at the corners of his insolent mouth.

Maude’s outward appearance today made her look seventy, or more, instead of her usual fifty. She was in front of the girls and continued walking as if not seeing his arms, but she said sharply, “No, you may not, whatever it is you’re selling. Go away.”

At the last moment, he lowered his right arm and allowed her to stride past with Prin and Sara at her heels. None of them gave him another look. But he didn’t quit. He raced after them and called, “I am a mage, and I require you to identify yourselves.”

At that point, Maude paused and slowly turned, her eyes flashing in anger. “I am familiar with all of the imperial mages in Gallium, as I am a senior sorceress, and do not recognize you … boy.”

“I’m not from Gallium.”

“So, you freely admit you have no standing or authority in our beautiful city, yet you are preventing me from going about my business? Does that about sum up your intentions?”

“I demand–”

A calloused hand descended on the mage’s shoulder and pulled him back a full step. The young mage swung around in anger, to find himself facing a warrior of almost fifty years, taller by a head, arms bulging with muscles. An iron ring circled his belt, and the blade of a long, thin sword rested inside it, without a scabbard. The warrior said softly, “Mistress Maude, is this slip of a mage pestering you?”

Prin saw the anger and flush in the mage who believed his powers allowed him to do as he pleased and that all others answered to him. She also noticed the royal colors of Wren, her kingdom–red, black, and orange–on a patch on his arm. There could be no doubt he was seeking her, the missing princess.

Maude hesitated only an instant. “Now that you mention it, he is bothering me.”

“I am a mage on official business! Let me go.” He tried to shake free.

“I am of the Order of the Iron Ring, and you are interfering with one of our benefactors. You must cease immediately.”

“I will strike you dead with a bolt of lightning if you do not unhand me.” The mage tried to spin himself free, looking for all the world like a schoolboy with a stolen cookie, caught by a headmaster.

The man of the Order said softly, “And will you also call down your lightning bolts on my friends?” He nodded behind the mage, where four more warriors, all dressed the same and wearing the same swords of the Iron Order had approached unnoticed. They spread out in a half circle, with their hands on the hilts of their weapons, ready to use them before the mage could raise an arm to cast a spell.

Prin had no doubt that a single aggressive move by the mage would cause four blades to draw and slash as one, and the mage would be the one who was dead—without a single bolt of lightning. She held her breath, unsure of how stupid the young mage was going to be.

But the mage understood his predicament. He spoke to Maude in a steady, stilted voice, “Sorry to have bothered you on this fine morning, madam.”

Maude spun and strode down the hillside without responding. When they were alone, she said, “I have never had one of them act so rude to me.”

“He wore the colors of Wren,” Prin said, almost to herself.

Sara pointed, “Oh, look. That’s Brice’s ship.”

Brice stood at the rail of a cargo vessel, his sea bag at his feet, talking and laughing with two other sailors. They shared another joke, and then he spotted the women and waved. The three women rushed to meet him at the gangplank, laughing, hugging, and planning his time ashore, but Prin noticed a certain lack of enthusiasm. Brice seemed distracted, and his gaze kept returning to her as if wishing he could speak freely.

Sara and Maude pummeled him with questions, but he deflected many of them, even when they scrambled into the carriage and began climbing the long hill to their home near the top. Prin noticed the mage who had accosted them earlier watching from a concealed doorway, his forearm lifted across his mouth as if he was trying to hide his face.

“Did you travel all the way to Wren and back? It seems like you just left,” Sara said. “We missed you.”

“Did the ship feed you well?” Maude asked. “You look thin.”

Thin? Prin thought. No, he looked worried. She braced herself for bad news, and when he refused to make eye contact, she knew it was so. She tried to enjoy the ride and take part in the excitement, but it fell flat.

Once inside Maude’s home, they all sat on facing sofas, plates of fresh fruit between them. Maude said, her smile showing perfect teeth, her face now that of a concerned woman of thirty, “Tell us what happened. What’s wrong?”

He turned to Prin and said solemnly, “The King is dead.”

“How?” Prin asked. She was so shocked the word barely traveled across the room.

“There was an accident. King Harold was in a coach that drove over a cliff in the mountains above the palace.”

Prin’s stomach tightened. Her head swam. She had only met him once, but he was her blood, her King. And he had been the lifelong confidant of her father. The breath that wouldn’t enter her lungs caused her to choke. A flood of tears followed.

Maude and Sara comforted her while Brice stood aside and moaned that he should have found a better way to tell her, to have eased into the subject. Prin wanted to shout that it wouldn’t have mattered—she would feel the same. But words wouldn’t come. She curled into a ball and wept.

After a few moments, Prin regained enough control to ask, “How did it happen?”

Brice sat beside her. “The story is that his carriage was traveling too fast around a turn in the mountains. The wheel slipped over the soft edge, and the carriage followed.”

Prin sat erect. “That story smells like five-day old fish.”

Maude patted her shoulder and said in a soothing voice, “Stay calm, Prin. It sounds like an accident. We don’t know the facts.”

Prin stood, angry and wary, with her fists balled. Her mind started to accept the story and digest the implications. “A King nearly eighty years old would never allow his driver to race a royal carriage on mountain roads. It was an assassination.”

Sara came to her side. “Maybe the horse bolted.”

“Royal carriages have four or more highly trained horses, the best-trained animals in the kingdom. If one did bolt, the other three would hold it back.” Prin crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. Her temper prevented them from saying or doing anything more or approaching too closely. Her eyes went to Brice. She snapped, “His son will wear the crown?”

Brice shook his head sadly, “He was also in the carriage.”

“Convenient.” Prin kicked out, barely missing the end of the sofa. The miss was fortunate, or the sofa may have lifted from the ground and flown to the far side of the room from the power of her foot. Her fist pounded her palm, but her complexion paled as she realized more implications. Brice backed to the wall away from her.

“There’s more?” she demanded of him, stalking towards him.

“Prince Henry, your other uncle, died of illness just before my ship sailed. At least that’s what they say—he died of an illness.”

“And Willard?” she demanded, asking about the only person still ahead of her on the Roll of Ascension for the throne of Wren.

Brice’s voice trembled. “He’s defying the wishes of everyone. Despite his advanced age, your uncle is accepting the throne as the rightful heir. If he dies, and you cannot be located, you will be declared legally dead, and Princess Elenore will assume the throne.”

Prin laughed without humor. “Willard sounds just like a true member of my family. Stubborn and defiant. But they’ll kill him for it.”

“Why would he accept?” Maude asked. “I thought he and his brother always said they would not accept the crown because of their advanced age.”

Prin turned to face her. “He did it to provide time for me to return home and claim my legacy, and so Eleonore is never proclaimed Queen of Wren.”