Page 1 of Keeper of the Word (The Unsung and the Wolf Duology #2)

Chapter

One

IN THE PROVINCE OF ASKELLA OF THE CAPELLA REALM: TOLVAR

T olvar was home. The sight of Thorin Court gave him a sense of lightness he hadn’t experienced in over three moons’ time.

He could scarcely fathom that he was gazing upon the stone curtain wall that surrounded his family fortress.

It was like a dream but was all as Tolvar remembered.

Two towers stood at attention on either side, the white-washed gatehouse in its center, open and welcoming.

At this moment, he did not recall the screams, the blood, or the failure so acute it knifed him open. Nor the last four years of banishment. Nay, Tolvar simply reveled in being home.

“From your description, I thought it would be bigger,” Hux said next to him from astride their mounts as they gazed at the castle, the city of Thorindale visible in the distance behind it.

Tolvar ignored Hux, an art at which he was becoming more adept.

He still questioned his sanity about allowing Hux, a known outlaw from Deogol, the kingdom Tolvar had just journeyed from, to accompany him home.

But then, Hux had nowhere else to go. Ghlee, Tolvar’s closest friend, who was more like a brother, had found the most irritating way of guilting Tolvar into bringing Hux along: he had reminded Tolvar how important a life could be .

Tolvar exhaled. Stars, he was not at all certain what was in store for him here. He was welcome, of course. The Wolf. The hero. The reclaimed title of Earl of Askella. Yet it had been four years since he’d crossed the threshold of his family’s home.

“Lord Wolf? You do want to go home?” Hux’s smile was all too knowing.

“Aye. Come. Let us see if a feast awaits us. Stuffing your face will fill that mindless mouth of yours.”

“After you.” Hux gestured a bowed, and they flicked their horses across the last span of the field to the main gate.

What awaited them as they rode into the inner bailey was every blasted servant at Thorin Court. Three lines of people stood staring.

Siria’s skirt , thought Tolvar .

Being the Wolf, the knight’s title he’d been given eleven years ago after earning his spurs at the exceptionally young age of fifteen, he was accustomed to the occasional spectacle, hundreds of eyes ogling, but in his own home? This could not last.

Tolvar glared around the bailey’s courtyard as he dismounted. The steward, Conall, at least, did not back away as others did. Conall was a stout man, both in stature and in demeanor. Just the person Thorin Court had needed in Tolvar’s absence.

“Does not everyone have something better to do?” Tolvar asked Conall.

“Aye, m’lord, but upon your arrival, the whole of the castle wished to be present. We bless the day the Earl of Askella reigns here once more.”

Behind Tolvar, Hux snorted. Tolvar would never hear the end of this.

“Well, they’ve looked their fill. Back to their tasks.” Tolvar turned and headed for the inner keep’s main entrance; Hux followed. Conall, a wiser man, did not.

Had his father been here, he might have reprimanded Tolvar for not acknowledging the servants or making a speech or some other blather that would have been important to him, but Tolvar was a knight first. He did not make time for prattle; his concern was the state of Askella’s defenses.

Four years. What had occurred in his province during that time?

Any news of Askella that had reached his ears while exiled had been vague and worthless.

Realizing Hux still trailed him, Tolvar found a passing maid, who pointedly kept eye contact off him, and told her to take Hux to the Great Hall for nourishment.

“But will you not feel odd that we’re separated after all this time together?” Hux laughed before Tolvar could retort. “I jest! ’Twill be pleasant to have time to myself.”

“Do not make yourself too comfortable,” Tolvar warned. “And do not even think about wrapping your fingers around something that does not belong to you,” he added, referring to Hux’s past as the former leader of the Ravyns, a band of Deogolian highwaymen.

Hux dramatically put his palm to his chest. “Never.”

Tolvar scowled, pivoted, and went in search of Sir Bernwald, Thorin Court’s Commander of the Guard.

As he walked through the corridors, the familiar smells of home greeted him.

His mother’s most beloved pastime had been turning dried flowers and plants into a fragrant potpourri.

Cloves mixed with the fresh scent of dried dew fruit embraced him in nostalgia.

Until now, he’d never thought about how the housekeeper, Janka, had kept up this tradition in Thorin Court after his mother’s death.

The words would never be uttered aloud, but he’d dearly missed this taken-for-granted fragrance.

He ducked briefly into rooms he knew by heart: the family library, the small dining hall, the ladies’ solar.

One room he did not venture into was his father’s study; his study now, he supposed. Tolvar was not ready.

Sir Bernwald and three other knights stood waiting for Tolvar in the commander’s office.

The office, attached to the knights’ barracks, was a stone-walled room with a window that faced the training yard.

Tolvar was pleased to see one of the knights was Joss, one of the few female soldiers in Thorin Court who’d worked up the ranks over the past six years.

Her hair was short in a no-nonsense style, and her alert eyes matched.

The way Joss stood with her shoulders back, Tolvar concluded she was second in rank here, mayhap even knight-captain.

Later, Tolvar would have to observe her in command to ensure her orders were followed.

He’d have no insolence amongst his guard.

The other two knights were new to Tolvar. Both were dark-haired, in their twenties, with eyes forward and dutiful.

“Welcome home, m’lord,” Sir Bernwald greeted. The older man’s beard had greyed since Tolvar had seen him last. His crow’s feet had become more distinct.

Before Tolvar could halt the thought, his mind’s eye saw the last moment they’d been together. He banished the memory of Sir Bernwald holding his prior second-in-command’s bleeding head in his lap in this very office.

Sir Bernwald clasped Tolvar in a knight’s embrace, then stood back at attention. Tolvar had always admired Sir Bernwald, and his presence immediately put him at ease about the state of Askella. Sir Bernwald wasn’t one for gibberish and was certain to have kept peace and order during Tolvar’s exile.

“What news?” Tolvar asked, sitting in a wooden chair and gesturing for the others to do the same.

“Thorindale remains secure. The south side of the city has long recovered from the fires caused by the riots four years ago.” Tolvar appreciated that Bernwald did not tone down his words.

The attack at Thorin Court was dreadful enough.

As earl now, he didn’t need his commander tiptoeing around the past. “The city’s guard is stable at one hundred soldiers.

Their pay is current. Shaen and Kelton’s guards stand at sixty. ”

Tolvar nodded. Sixty would suffice for those two towns. Especially in Shaen, which, although it sat on his province’s border, shared that border with Ashwin, the province of the StarSeers. No need to hire more soldiers there.

Tolvar listened to Bernwald give a few more details as he observed the three knights, their faces taut, shoulders solid. He liked these knights.

“All sounds well,” Tolvar said, eyeing the pitcher of wine on a corner table. He’d ignored wine for the past three moons; he could continue to do so .

“Not all, m’lord.” Bernwald eyed the knights, who stiffened in their chairs at Bernwald’s words. Joss fidgeted with her worn leather sword belt. Tolvar smothered the emotion he felt eyeing the leather.

“Tell me,” Tolvar said, leaning forward.

“A message came three days ago from Lessio that there have been skirmishes along the Greenwood border.”

“Greenwood?” Tolvar couldn’t hide his surprise. The Earl of Greenwood was married to his father’s cousin. They’d always been close. In fact, during Tolvar’s first days in exile, he’d hidden there for a time. “What is this about?”

“No one has been captured as of yet. Sir Barrett, if you please.” Sir Bernwald gestured to the knight closest to Joss to hand him a bit of parchment. “I sent a message by raven to Cheval demanding cause and received this in return from Greenwood’s steward this morning.”

Tolvar took the note. The end read:

If there was a skirmish, Askella was surely the aggressor.

Tolvar raised an eyebrow over the parchment at Bernwald.

“My men have sworn they were provoked.”

Tolvar tossed the note on the desk, which was already covered with stacks of parchment. Later, he’d have to speak to Bernwald about the orderliness of his office.

“Where exactly?” Tolvar asked.

“About seven leagues from the Greenwood Forest. About five leagues from the border of Ashwin.”

The location made even less sense than the attack itself. The borders of Ashwin were sacred. Tolvar scratched his beard.

“I can give you the full account. There were no losses, but seven men were injured?—”

Tolvar held up a hand. Bernwald ceased. “Tell me the account later. Any other news?”

“A letter arrived from Asalle, m’lord. ’Tis the second from the sovereign,” Sir Bernwald said. “Sir Conall has it.”

“I shall deal with the sovereign later, as well. For now, I’m hungry, tired, and in need of a long bath.” Tolvar stood, and the others followed. “In the meantime, if you receive any more reports of Greenwood?—”

“You’ll be the first to know.” Sir Bernwald cracked a half-smile. “’Tis most good to have you home, m’lord.”

Tolvar nodded and left. He made his way up the stairs, down the long north corridor to the small room he sought. A small room that was mayhap the most unfamiliar to him in the castle. The Priva.

Tolvar would not be able to restrain his emotions much longer.

When he opened the door, he found, like the other rooms of the castle, there was no dust or damage. It’d been well attended as everything else had.

The Priva was a simple space. Naught but a plain muslin cushion on the floor under the window facing north. It acted as a room for prayer.

Tolvar was not a praying man. And he had no intention of praying now.

But his time in the island kingdom of Deogol, where he’d spent the last year helping the Order of Siria to defeat the curse of the Befallen, had changed him. He found that when his grief was most lumped in his throat, he studied the stars.

’Twas still daylight. But stars veiled were stars, nonetheless.

Tolvar knelt, his fists clenching a small leather moon cuff, a prayer wristlet worn by keepers of the faith in the moon goddesses of Deogol. The Capella Realm did not practice this same faith, but the moon cuff was more than a mere spiritual trinket to Tolvar. After all, he was not a praying man.

He’d held it together. He’d returned to Thorin Court as lord and master. To his steward, commander, and servants, all was right in Askella.

But they had not known Sloane.

True. The tale of Sloane the Unsung had already traveled to the Capella Realm.

Patrons in the pub in the port city of Seabeckon crowded Tolvar to retell the magnificent hero’s tale again.

And he’d told it. He’d told them of the bit of woman who’d become the Unsung through sheer faith.

Who had bravely faced the dark force of the Befallen alone.

Who had walked courageously into the Befallen, sacrificing herself to save the kingdom of Deogol.

What he omitted was that he had loved Sloane. With as much fire and fervor as the knight called the Wolf could love, Tolvar had loved Sloane.

And now she was gone.

Tolvar squeezed Sloane’s moon cuff in his palm, begging himself to halt the tears, to bar the emotions, to not remember how truly extraordinary Sloane had been.

But grief was a monster he’d already suffered for years after the attack here at Thorin Court, and it won again as Tolvar clutched the moon cuff and sobbed.