dreaded the rest: a fight between the royal couple would force him to choose sides.
What had Ishma done?
She had changed so much from the first time he had met her. Years ago, after Azmon defeated the Hurrians, Ishma negotiated a peaceful union between Rosh and her kingdom of Narbor. Tyrus would never forget seeing her for the first time.
Azmon had sent him to escort her to Rosh. He marched into her throne room. His black armor echoed through the large space of white stone and green rugs and tapestries. The history of Narbor flanked her, images of the kings and queens of the past. A dozen pikemen stood posts around the room, and the royal families eyed him with contempt.
Ishma wore an emerald-green gown and a gold crown. The Narboran fashion displayed more skin than was proper, bare shoulders and a low-cut dress, with far too many gold chains. The green of the room and dress highlighted Ishma’s eyes, as if the monarch must have emerald irises to wear the crown. Tyrus remembered catching his breath, to smirks from the court. This was the woman who befuddled Azmon, the Face That Won a War.
Tyrus knelt. “Queen Ishma, I am Tyrus of Kelnor.”
“A Kellai?”
“I am, your majesty.”
“But I thought the Kellai were laborers.”
“We are.”
“How are you the Lord Marshal?”
“We are also warriors.”
Tyrus waited for the sneer, but Ishma never insulted him. He later learned she shared Azmon’s respect for accomplishment—to a point. Tyrus would never marry a royal, but his talent for war had uses. In many ways, they treated him like a family dog, rewarded if loyal but put down if too old to guard the house. He never forgot his childhood, the squalor, the dirt floors, the empty stomach. He had risen far but would rise no further.
“Azmon gives rank to commoners?”
“Not all of them, your majesty.”
Her smile inspired violence. Tyrus wanted to hurt people for her. Let someone insult her or attack her, and she would see him do what he did best. Nobles tried to bribe him away from Azmon, but he had never seen anything as tempting as Ishma’s smile.
She asked, “Azmon does not come himself?”
“He sends apologies. Affairs with Holon distract him. I bring a regiment of Roshan lancers as escort. I am to be your new guardian, your majesty, a gift from the Prince of the Dawn, the greatest champion in Sornum to guard the greatest beauty in creation.”
“I already have a guardian, Lord Marshal. A swordsman with seven runes.”
“Your majesty, I have eighteen runes.”
The court gasped together, as though the great hall inhaled. Ishma covered her mouth. Tyrus had prepared himself for disbelief. He asked one of the pikemen to assist him with his armor so that he might display his bare chest and back and Azmon’s etchings. The runic tattoos were drawn with a blackish-green ink, larger than most, deeper than most. Tyrus’s power would be evident to a trained eye.
“How is that possible?” Ishma stood and walked to him. She traced a finger over one rune, and his skin shivered. “No one in Narbor has survived more than eight, and that was ages ago.”
The way she walked, a young woman in her prime, curves and confidence, Tyrus blushed at her touch. He coughed and asked the pikeman to help him back into his armor. He tried to calm his heart, but blood warmed his cheeks.
“You have fewer scars on your back.” Ishma walked around him. “A man who takes his wounds facing his opponent.”
“The Kellai seldom retreat, your majesty.”
Tyrus felt better in his armor again. He stood taller, more composed. The Narboran court whispered, and he caught a few fragments: some thought the runes were fake; others wondered what secrets Rosh had discovered. Ishma made eye contact with him, a breach of etiquette, but she had a question on her face and he waited for her to ask it. She didn’t, and he found himself watching her for too long, aware of the rules he broke and unsure of himself.
“Are you ready to
What had Ishma done?
She had changed so much from the first time he had met her. Years ago, after Azmon defeated the Hurrians, Ishma negotiated a peaceful union between Rosh and her kingdom of Narbor. Tyrus would never forget seeing her for the first time.
Azmon had sent him to escort her to Rosh. He marched into her throne room. His black armor echoed through the large space of white stone and green rugs and tapestries. The history of Narbor flanked her, images of the kings and queens of the past. A dozen pikemen stood posts around the room, and the royal families eyed him with contempt.
Ishma wore an emerald-green gown and a gold crown. The Narboran fashion displayed more skin than was proper, bare shoulders and a low-cut dress, with far too many gold chains. The green of the room and dress highlighted Ishma’s eyes, as if the monarch must have emerald irises to wear the crown. Tyrus remembered catching his breath, to smirks from the court. This was the woman who befuddled Azmon, the Face That Won a War.
Tyrus knelt. “Queen Ishma, I am Tyrus of Kelnor.”
“A Kellai?”
“I am, your majesty.”
“But I thought the Kellai were laborers.”
“We are.”
“How are you the Lord Marshal?”
“We are also warriors.”
Tyrus waited for the sneer, but Ishma never insulted him. He later learned she shared Azmon’s respect for accomplishment—to a point. Tyrus would never marry a royal, but his talent for war had uses. In many ways, they treated him like a family dog, rewarded if loyal but put down if too old to guard the house. He never forgot his childhood, the squalor, the dirt floors, the empty stomach. He had risen far but would rise no further.
“Azmon gives rank to commoners?”
“Not all of them, your majesty.”
Her smile inspired violence. Tyrus wanted to hurt people for her. Let someone insult her or attack her, and she would see him do what he did best. Nobles tried to bribe him away from Azmon, but he had never seen anything as tempting as Ishma’s smile.
She asked, “Azmon does not come himself?”
“He sends apologies. Affairs with Holon distract him. I bring a regiment of Roshan lancers as escort. I am to be your new guardian, your majesty, a gift from the Prince of the Dawn, the greatest champion in Sornum to guard the greatest beauty in creation.”
“I already have a guardian, Lord Marshal. A swordsman with seven runes.”
“Your majesty, I have eighteen runes.”
The court gasped together, as though the great hall inhaled. Ishma covered her mouth. Tyrus had prepared himself for disbelief. He asked one of the pikemen to assist him with his armor so that he might display his bare chest and back and Azmon’s etchings. The runic tattoos were drawn with a blackish-green ink, larger than most, deeper than most. Tyrus’s power would be evident to a trained eye.
“How is that possible?” Ishma stood and walked to him. She traced a finger over one rune, and his skin shivered. “No one in Narbor has survived more than eight, and that was ages ago.”
The way she walked, a young woman in her prime, curves and confidence, Tyrus blushed at her touch. He coughed and asked the pikeman to help him back into his armor. He tried to calm his heart, but blood warmed his cheeks.
“You have fewer scars on your back.” Ishma walked around him. “A man who takes his wounds facing his opponent.”
“The Kellai seldom retreat, your majesty.”
Tyrus felt better in his armor again. He stood taller, more composed. The Narboran court whispered, and he caught a few fragments: some thought the runes were fake; others wondered what secrets Rosh had discovered. Ishma made eye contact with him, a breach of etiquette, but she had a question on her face and he waited for her to ask it. She didn’t, and he found himself watching her for too long, aware of the rules he broke and unsure of himself.
“Are you ready to
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