A Tale of Stars and Shadow Read online

  It had been a perfectly ordinary summer afternoon. She’d walked into her Callanan partner’s house, through the back door and without knocking, as she’d done a million times before. Sari had been sprawled on the small, brightly coloured couch, one eye on her little son playing by the window and the other on a long sheet of parchment. Warm sunlight shone through the windows and the house smelled of tomatoes and salty sea air.

  Sari was already looking up with a grin before Talyn stepped through the doorway, warned of her arrival by their instinctive awareness of each other’s presence. Her pleasure at Talyn’s arrival was clear despite the fact they’d only seen each other late the day before, arriving back in the city after their latest assignment. An echoing pleasure had beat through her. Always like that. In perfect rhythm.

  “Ta!” Tarquin had heaved himself off the floor to wrap his chubby arms around her leg in greeting before going to join his father in the kitchen. A moment later, his voice drifted back, high-pitched with excitement, as he’d asked if he could help.

  Roan was cooking dinner—the source of the tomato smell. “Staying for dinner, Tal?” he’d asked, waving a wooden spoon around and sending sauce splattering to the floor when she ducked into the kitchen to say hello. Tarquin had shrieked with laughter. Sari had rolled her eyes, Talyn’s presence probably saving Roan from a sharp word.

  She had stayed for dinner. They’d talked and laughed over the food, then while Roan put their son to bed, she and Sari had sipped glasses of wine out in the garden, enjoying the balmy night. It had been easy, and warm and home.

  Her Callanan partner had died two months later.

  A sharp sideways step from the restless mare beneath her brought Talyn crashing back to the present. The mournful howl of baying hounds faded into the distance as the hunting pack reached the other side of the valley and entered thick forest. She touched the reins lightly, holding her copper mare in check.

  “FireFlare looks eager to run.”

  Talyn looked up at the man riding his grey stallion towards her, hoping he hadn’t noticed her drifting off. She gave a casual shrug, summoning a teasing tone of voice. “She’s the fastest here and she knows it. Greylord is going to have to get used to second place today.”

  There had once been joy—and smugness too—in having one of the finest pureblood Aimsir mares in the country, but that was gone along with everything else. It was hard to remember what those things had felt like.

  Ariar Dumnorix threw back his head and laughed. “Remember your place, Cousin. I am Horselord, and several years older than you.”

  His laughter eased something inside her. The ruling Dumnorix blood were a close-knit, powerful brood of whom much was expected, but there was something magical in the way they gave each other strength. She’d needed that desperately when she left Port Lathilly for Ryathl a year earlier—not that they had any idea.

  Ariar’s shock of golden hair, glinting with red highlights in the sun, wasn’t typically Dumnorix, but his unusually luminous blue eyes marked him clearly as one of them. Bright as starlight in a clear night sky. All Dumnorix had those bright eyes, a physical manifestation of that hint of magic that ran through all their veins.

  “You wouldn’t want me to let you win, now would you?” Talyn’s gaze roamed over the assembled nobility gathered on the plains outside Ryathl, waiting for the hounds to get the scent of a fox. “Uncle wouldn’t like that.”

  “I can’t believe he’s managed to drag himself out of that draughty palace for the afternoon.” Ariar’s incredulousness was exaggerated, but a smile still curled at Talyn’s mouth as they both glanced towards Aethain Dumnorix, ruler of the Twin Thrones. It was impossible to be completely depressed with Ariar around. She’d once been just like him.

  The king was in his mid-fifties, his curling black hair still showing no signs of grey, his amber eyes sharp and intelligent in a handsome, rugged face. Ariar constantly ribbed his elder cousin for his serious and reserved nature. Talyn was more forgiving—she shuddered at the thought of the heavy responsibility the king of the Twin Thrones must bear.

  “Six thrices, Talyn, you’re not paying a jot of attention to what I’m saying, are you?” Ariar’s voice interrupted her reverie. “Please tell me you’re not mooning over Tarcos Hadvezer.”

  Talyn started, cursing herself again. She had to stop drifting off. Ariar’s gaze was far too knowing for her comfort. She took his jibe and ran with it, summoning an irritated scowl. Tarcos was sitting his horse near the king. “I do not moon. Ever. End of story.”

  The distant baying of the hounds cut across Ariar’s response, and FireFlare leapt into a gallop before Talyn could even dig in her heels. She settled down in the saddle without thought, doing her best to give in to the momentary freedom of her mare’s speed and the wind whipping past her face.

  The Twin Thrones Aimsir were legendary for their riding prowess and the speed and agility of the horses they rode—used as a mobile archer force in battle, they spent peacetime hunting to supply the northern villages of Calumnia during the long, rugged winters when they were mostly cut off from the rest of the country. It was in tracking, chasing down and killing the dangerous kharfa—massive animals with thick hides used for clothing and meat that could supply an entire family for a week—that Aimsir had developed their skills in horsemanship and archery.

  Growing up in the north, it had been inevitable that Talyn would become Aimsir, and now it was impossible to remember a time when she hadn’t been one, even though she’d left home and the unending plains in the north that were the Aimsir heartland to join the Callanan the moment she was old enough.

  Ariar—who’d never left the Aimsir and had commanded them as Horselord for three years now—passed Talyn on Greylord within moments and took the lead as they raced across the open plains towards the forest in the distance. Aethain was in between Talyn and Ariar on his own Aimsir stallion, two of his Kingshield guards keeping close, their focus on their charge, not the hunt.

  But FireFlare was rapidly closing the distance.

  Talyn edged the mare out to the left, the wind tearing through her raven hair and bringing tears to her eyes. They gained steadily on the king until FireFlare was flying past him and closing in on Ariar. An echo of the old Talyn came rising to the surface, and she whipped her knife out from her belt, flipped it neatly, and tapped Ariar on the back of the head with the hilt as FireFlare raced by.

  Greylord had the faster acceleration but FireFlare was swifter than anything alive over longer distances.

  “Cheat!” Ariar roared good-naturedly at her, the wind ripping his words to shreds.

  FireFlare edged ahead of the pack, with Ariar closest behind, followed by Aethain and the handful of his Kingshield guard that could keep up as they hit the forest and pushed through.

  The nobles were left far behind.

  The baying hounds had a fox cornered in a wide clearing not far beyond the tree line. Talyn reached back for her bow, Ariar barely three strides behind her. Dropping the reins and controlling FireFlare with knees alone, she yanked an arrow from the quiver on her back, knocked the bow, and…

  The hiss from behind froze her mid-draw.

  Panic sprawled up through her chest in a torrent so forceful she literally couldn’t think. Then her logical brain caught up.

  Ariar had fired in the second before Talyn could. It was just his arrow flying through the air behind her.

  It hit the fox cleanly, two breaths before Talyn loosed her arrow, which buried itself in the fox’s side inches away from Ariar’s. Talyn guided her mare around in a wide circle, slinging the bow back across her saddle and trying to return her breathing to normal before her cousin noticed. Fortunately he was too busy letting out a loud whoop of triumph to do so.

  That was when the ruler of the Twin Thrones burst into the clearing, reining his horse in with easy skill once he saw the fox was already dead.

  “What was with the hesitation?” Ariar complained. “I thought you weren’t going
to let me win.”

  Her heart plummeted when she realised he’d noticed. The panic threatened to return. She cleared her throat and lifted her left hand. “My wrist is still a little sore. Besides, I did win, FireFlare beat you here.”

  “Liar.”

  Talyn resolutely shoved the voice away. She was currently in a phase of pretending it didn’t exist.

  “But Ariar’s arrow landed first. He takes the win,” Aethain said, approval in his voice as he nodded at Ariar. Her cousin grinned in delight.

  “Thank you both for the outing,” Aethain continued. “Can you join me for lunch tomorrow?”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry, uncle,” Talyn apologised. He wasn’t technically her uncle—her mother was his first cousin—but the diminutive was easy. Those of Dumnorix blood never used titles when speaking to each other, even if one of them did sit on a throne with two countries under its rule. “I won’t have another day off for a while.”

  “Of course. The next posting assignments are decided next week.” Aethain’s amber eyes brightened. “I’m sure Lark will put you somewhere important given your background. You must be excited.”

  She wasn’t. In fact, the very idea terrified her. The Kingshield posted new recruits to guard details every six months. A broken wrist in sparring practice had gotten her out of the last one—the first since she’d left the Callanan and joined the Kingshield—but that excuse wasn’t going to work again.

  “I can’t come either. I’m off back to the mountains.” Ariar looked cheerful at the idea. “More brigands to slay, that sort of thing. We’ll do dinner when I get back though.”

  Aethain frowned. “Nothing too serious I hope?”

  “Not at all,” Ariar assured him. “In fact, we’re planning an assault on one of their main supply bases near Port Lathilly.” A sideways glance at Talyn. “One of the Callanan informants there came through in a big way.”

  She gritted her teeth. Ariar’s look told her the informant was one she and Sari had developed before her partner’s death. She tried to be glad their hard work in finding him had paid off, but she failed miserably. Her hands had tightened unconsciously on the reins, the leather cutting into her skin. She almost welcomed the pain.

  Aethain’s amber eyes settled on her a moment, as if he sensed some of her distress despite the mask she wore. But eventually he nodded. “Good work. Keep me apprised of the outcome.”

  With that, he wheeled his horse around to turn back for the castle.

  “Talyn?” Ariar asked, looking concerned. He knew the story, they all did, but after a year she’d developed a good enough pretence that they thought she’d moved on. The last thing she wanted was for them to realise how broken she actually was.

  “Try not to get hit by a poorly-aimed brigand arrow,” she said lightly. “Ryathl can be a drag without you around to liven things up.”

  “Don’t I know it! You just stay here and polish your pretty Kingshield sword like a good little guard and I’ll be back quicker than you think.” Lightly meant, there was still a hint of confusion in her cousin’s tone. Ariar would never understand why she’d left the life of an Aimsir to be a Callanan, and now a Kingshield. With a wink, he wheeled his horse and galloped away after the king. Soon after he was surrounded by his own Kingshield guard, who’d been left trailing valiantly in his wake.

  Talyn let out a breath. Being amongst her relatives made her stronger, calmer. But it also meant having to summon the effort to maintain a semblance of what she’d been before. Now, left alone in the clearing, she was both relieved and tired.

  Sighing, she turned FireFlare back towards the city. She had just enough time to wash off the smell of horse and change before a promised meet up with friends in the city.

  And somewhere between now and then she’d need to summon the strength for more pretending.

  That came sooner than she’d hoped. She emerged from the clearing well behind Ariar and Aethain to find Tarcos Hadvezer, the Firthlander prince living at Ryathl court, waiting for her.

  As per custom between the Firthlander warlord and the king sitting the Twin Thrones of Calumnia and Conmor, Tarcos had come to Ryathl three years earlier to live at court. Technically, he was a hostage, but nobody ever used that word. The Twin Thrones held sovereignty over Firthland, but Aethain, and his father and grandfather before him, essentially allowed the Firthlanders to run themselves.

  And to ease the sting, the Dumnorix often sent one of their brood to Samatia for a similar purpose. Ariar had spent five years there when he was younger.

  Tarcos’ smile was reserved, but his hazel eyes were warm against his dark skin. Unlike the wild hair and beards of the fierce Firthlander Bearman detachment stationed with him in Ryathl, he was clean-shaven and wore his dark hair cut short.

  He caught her gaze, and his faint smile widened slightly. She gave him a quick smile as she rode up to him. They’d been lovers on and off since they’d met during a brief assignment that Talyn and Sari had been given in Ryathl, but it had never been anything serious. There was no room in her for anything serious, not anymore, and he seemed happy with that arrangement.

  Not that her uncle would be unhappy if they were serious. A match between her and a Firthlander prince was about as perfect as it came, and she supposed one day it would be official. Imagining that day was utterly impossible. But she liked Tarcos a lot.

  “Is your uncle going to ensure you’re posted to his guard detail?” he asked eagerly as they began riding together back to the city.

  Talyn winced. She wished everyone would stop bringing that up. “No. In fact, he’ll do the opposite. We’re Dumnorix, Tarcos. Neither of us would appreciate him pulling strings on my behalf.”

  Thank everything for that.

  Tarcos sensed enough in her tone to let it drop, instead turning the subject to the hunt. She liked that about him—that he knew when to let things lie. And while she chatted with him about who had come first and last in the hunt, her mind turned over her options for how to manage what was coming the next week.

  Part of her rankled at the endless drill and sparring that had been her life in the year since joining the Kingshield. A much larger part was terrified she wouldn’t be able to handle returning to active duty. If anything happened like it had just then—when the sound of an arrow firing had frozen her and cost her the win—she’d never forgive herself. A lapse like that on active duty could lead to the death of her charge.

  Another sparring injury would be too obvious. No other ideas came to her, short of asking her uncle to intervene. That would mean telling him the truth, a conversation that was even more terrifying than getting posted to a detail in the first place.

  Tarcos seemed to sense her distant mood and left her at the city gates with a warm kiss and a promise to take her to dinner the next night.

  Her melancholy mood followed her all the way back to the Kingshield barracks, despite the ride and time with her Aimsir mare. Once she’d washed, she found herself standing at the window of her shared room. Outside, the sun was setting, soft orange rays lighting the courtyards and gardens of the Kingshield barracks in amber.

  Idly, she placed her palm on the window, savouring its cool touch. In the drill yard below, warriors wearing the black uniforms of the Kingshield called out to each other as they sparred. The emblem on their chests—a hundred tiny stars stitched into the shape of twin crossed swords—gleamed amber; almost as bright as the real things.

  Like stars in a night sky.

  Burn bright and true.

  The Dumnorix oath. She held that thought, kept holding as she breathed in deep.

  Leaving the Callanan to join the Kingshield at twenty-five was far from unheard of. The Kingshield—solely responsible for the protection of the ruler sitting the Twin Thrones and all others of Dumnorix blood—only accepted the elite from across the various Calumnian and Conmoran fighting units.

  But being Kingshield wasn’t something Talyn had ever planned on. She’d only ever wanted to be Callan
an, to experience the thrill of battle, weapon in hand and adrenalin pumping through her veins. It had meant leaving her family farm and the quiet life her Dumnorix mother had won for herself when she’d withdrawn from court and its politics upon choosing to marry a commoner. It meant leaving the Aimsir and the joy of a fast gallop and the open plains. None of that had mattered, she’d wanted to be Callanan so badly. After all, it was in her blood. Her mother had been Callanan—the Dumnorix line was littered with Aimsir, Callanan and SkyRiders.

  But after Sari… she’d tried but couldn’t do it. She’d fled the Callanan and gone to the Kingshield.

  But what they didn’t know—her little secret, one that could destroy her if it got out—was that she didn’t want a posting. She wasn’t at all certain she wanted to be in a fight ever again. Wasn’t certain she could handle it.

  But she couldn’t let it go either.

  Curling her hand into a fist of frustration—would she ever stop dwelling?—Talyn stepped away from the window and cast around for her cloak.

  She was already late to meet her friends.

  Sari had been Talyn’s Callanan partner, but they’d had many close friends amongst the Callanan before Talyn’s abrupt departure, two in particular. It made the idea of spending time with Leviana and Cynia equally painful and comforting, and Talyn could never decide which was the stronger emotion. Most of the time it just hurt.

  Leviana Seinn was the only child of the wealthy and powerful Lord Rodrich Seinn, who had doubled his wealth and power overnight when he’d married her mother, one of the Firthlander warlord’s cousins. Talyn had met Leviana in Ryathl her first week after leaving home in the north, during a dinner hosted by Aethain.

  After that night, Talyn quickly decided she hated all such events. Too many prying eyes and questions on topics she found too boring to even contemplate. Leviana had been gorgeously dressed, a popular member of the young, elite set of Ryathl court whom Talyn had absolutely zero interest in joining.

  It had taken those members a total of about three breaths to give up on courting the friendship of the newest and most mysterious Dumnorix family member in town. Talyn supposed her conversation on the relative merits of daggers versus sais—at some point she was going to have to choose her specialist Callanan weapon—might have had something to do with that.