When Ravens Call: The Fourth Book in the Small Gods Epic Fantasy Series (The Books of the Small Gods by Bruce Blake (ebook reader with highlight function TXT) 📕

"Worry not for Princess Danya. She is not here, but she is under our care. She has her own part to play in this."

"So she is safe?" The heaviness in his chest and limbs eased by the weight of a fly.

"She is. I imagine you will see her again soon."

Tension the swordmaster hadn't noticed creeping into his muscles relaxed; he breathed a deep sigh. "And Prince Teryk?"

The woman hesitated. "His path leads him to a different place. A darker place."

"But he's alive?"

Another pause. "Of a fashion." She turned away, resuming her route toward the gate at a quicker pace than before.

Trenan's heart jumped a beat. For all the turns of the seasons he'd trained the royal children, he always did his best to treat them the same, at least in terms of emotion if not the effort he asked of them in practice. But no matter how hard he tried, he knew things tilted one way more than the other. Yes, he loved Danya and respected the woman she'd become—a source of pride for him—but he'd never share the same connection with her he had with the prince.

'Of a fashion?' What does she mean?

He parted his lips to press her further about the prince's whereabouts, his condition, but the warrior behind Trenan pressed the shaft of her weapon against his back, jarring him forward. The master swordsman stumbled, righted himself, and spun on the woman, his teeth clenched tight. Before he said or did more, the tips of four pikes hovered within a finger's width of his face and throat.

He froze, the muted sounds of clashing weapons floating along the avenue from behind the wooden gates. After an instant, the distinct crunch of boots on gravel joined the commotion, and he sensed the leader at his back.

"Mind yourself, swordsman. Goddess brought you here for a reason other than your death, but it doesn't mean my warriors won't defend themselves."

She'd stepped so close behind him, her breath touched his neck as she spoke. He suppressed a shiver and a portion of the instant rage left him. Careful of the pike tips hovering near him, he pivoted slowly toward her. When he faced her, he found she stood four paces away from him. Had he so misjudged her place, the feel of her air on his skin? Or she performed the same stealthy magic as the others did when they discovered him? Either way, he stared at her, perplexed and unable to respond to her threat. A corner of her mouth tilted upward in what one may have considered a smile, then she turned her back to him once more, returning to their trek.

The gate was much closer now, the noise tumbling out from behind it louder. Trenan walked again, frowning. Why did a community meant to house the sick and dying have such arms and armor as to create this sound? He might have suspected a tournament in progress, but it lacked cheers accompanying the clatter of combat. An actual battle, then? Inside the city walls?

The woman halted when she came within five paces of the gate. The tap of a pike shaft on his chest prompted the master swordsman to do the same as another of the pikewomen hurried past. She stopped short of the gateway and rapped on it with the butt end of her weapon. Completing this task, she returned to her position without waiting for a response.

Five heartbeats later, both sides of the gate swung open.

The commotion of sounds increased in volume as the wooden baffle opened. Trenan leaned to his right, looking past the shoulder of the leader standing in front of him. Beyond her he spied a practice yard, dozens of soldiers within honing their techniques with sword and shield, spear and polearm. A few wore leather and chainmail like the pike-wielders, the others in nothing but white cloth hanging at their waists, their chests bare and gleaming with the sweat of their efforts.

And every soldier a woman.

VIII  Ishla – Queen's Guard

Erral slammed his fist on the tabletop, setting it shuddering and the flagon upon it wobbling. It settled without tipping. The king rarely took counsel or messages at the table instead of the throne room or meeting chamber but, when the queen heard of messengers bearing news of her children, she'd insisted they not wait on tradition.

"The princess escaped him and still no sign of the boy?"

Ishla winced at the king's choice of words. She hated when he referred to either of their offspring as 'the boy' or 'the girl,' but she worried most when he neglected to use Teryk's name. It wasn't possible he'd guessed the truth, but part of her harbored fear he suspected. What might happen if he found out? The thought frequently made her shudder.

The taller of the two soldiers—she didn't know him but recognized him as an acquaintance of her queen's guard, Dansil—practically hopped from foot to foot, a ludicrous grin on his face. His expression angered her; did he find the fact of her missing children amusing? The older soldier, she was familiar with—Osis, a compatriot of Trenan's. The veteran fighting man glared at him out of the corner of his eye, embarrassed by the man's demeanor and not attempting to hide his anger.

A shadow fell across the king's face. "When Trenan returns, I'll—"

"He doesn't matter now, your highness," Ishla interrupted. Using her husband's title rather than his name added to her discomfort, but the soldiers' presence demanded it. "The safety of our children is paramount. Considerations of reprimand can wait."

She paused, awaiting the king's response. As she watched his thoughts reflected in his expression, she suppressed her own nerves and trepidation. Worry didn't gnaw her stomach only for her children, but for Trenan, too. The seasons had turned many times since he'd sacrificed his arm to save the king. Though