The Broken Realm

1. Torrin’s Pass-1

1

Torrin’s Pass

Christian loaded the last of the crates into the wagon. Aylen was only half a beat behind, stretching and snapping the canvas over the top. He helped her secure the rope ties, and within moments, the contents of the wagon vanished under the dark cover. A fresh layer of snow dotted the top, further sealing their efforts.

“Is it enough, do you think?” Aylen asked. She crossed her arms, regarding their work with a troubled frown.

“It has to be. We can’t risk making weekly trips.”

“The bows will be an improvement from the swords. The scholar will know how to hunt. And Pieter is old enough that your father must have provided some training, right?”

“I think you underestimate the women in that camp,” Christian said with a short laugh. “But you’re right. You can’t hunt with a sword in the Northerlands. They’ll eat better with the proper tools.”

“Have you seen anything? Any visions?”

“No,” he said. “Not about that. My gift has been inexplicably quiet lately.”

Aylen frowned. “I put some toys in this time. They aren’t much, but...” She sighed. “He’s just a boy. He’s never had anything of his own. I know these aren’t essential to survival, but in a way, perhaps, they are.”

Christian kissed her on her temple. “You were right to put them in. His mother will appreciate that most of all. No one is more aware than she is of what he’s been denied.”

“It doesn’t seem possible, Christian. All these years, and no one knew they were there? Not a single person tried to help them?”

“Maybe they did and were punished for it.”

“Do you think...” Aylen turned her head away. “Lord and Lady Dereham knew about Darrick and Anabella. We read the scrolls. Their entire courtship happened here, at Wulfsgate. Your mother even advised Anabella on the matter. Isn’t it also possible they knew of their marriage?”

Christian had wondered about this, too, but there was no good to be found in losing oneself in speculation. His parents had nothing to do with Anabella’s k********g. They were as shocked as anyone to learn that she lived, that she had a son with the rightful king. “I don’t think they knew of the wedding, or they would’ve had a weapon against Eoghan long ago. Even after reading Anabella’s words, though I believe her, none of it seems real. Steward Weatherford thought his daughter had been lost in a storm, like so many others of the Northerlands. There was no reason to suspect something more sinister.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Aylen pulled her fur hood back over her face when the wind kicked up. “The kingdom will not take well to this news. To what Eoghan did.”

“No,” Christian said. Ahead, he saw his father, on Sorcha, returning from a patrol. Alric lingered behind on his smaller pony. “Though we will trust to our betters to decide when and how that news is to be spread.”

“Has Lord Dereham given any indication? Any at all?”

Christian didn’t answer. He didn’t have one. Much had changed since he’d been a boy, running around the Wintergarden, chasing after his younger siblings. Though, perhaps it hadn't changed, so much as he’d been too young to realize the wisdom in Wulfsgate had even then rested with the lady, and not the lord. It would be his mother who decided what to do next, and while she was cunning enough to make her husband believe the idea was his if she wanted to, there was a crushing cruelty in her, and that, too, had been a surprise.

He eyed the cart. This run included less food than the past one. They had to make room for fresh clothing, blankets, furs to withstand the cold weather. There were bows and knives for hunting and dressing. There had also been a request for vellum and ink, though this left him anxious. They wanted, they said, to send them back with letters. There was risk in this, but Christian found he couldn’t deny either the writer or the receiver of these letters. To be safe, he’d run it by his father, who’d rightly reminded him that those taking refuge in the cave were not their prisoners.

It didn’t ease Christian’s fears, though. If they were discovered, it would bring the entire kingdom down around them. It would bring war to the Northerlands.

Christian and Aylen had taken on the responsibility for these trips. They told others that Aylen’s father was ill, and there was a need for the two to cross the pass to tend to him intermittently. It wasn’t necessary to cross Torrin’s Pass to reach Witchwood Cross, so they claimed to be picking up furs from Steward Weatherford in Whitecap along the way. And they did both. They would stop in Whitecap and pile the furs into the now-empty wagon, and then continue on, crossing the pass at the northern end, to dip into Witchwood Cross for a visit with Aylen’s father, Steward Wynter. Yet, by the time they returned home, it was already time to make the trek once more. Exhaustion had set in, and Christian forced himself to disregard it.

Lord Dereham approached, his mare’s hooves crunching through layers of snow from past storms. Only in springtide would some of it melt away, revealing the crushed green of the ground. “All ready, then?”

“It would seem so,” Christian answered. His eyes traveled to his uncle, Alric, who was slower to join them. He rode a pony, he said, because he’d been atop a horse when that bear, years before, had dragged him from his mount and taken him away to be feasted upon. The horse had run off. A pony, he claimed, would have no such disloyalty.

This was one thing that hadn't changed at all. Alric had always seemed to exist in another realm altogether, in body and thought. He made a strange match with the spirited Earwyn, and their only son, Balfour, had been sent to Oldcastle, to university, before he was old enough to say the word. Christian heard his mother say that this had been Earwyn’s doing, so that the son didn't become the father.

“You have the weapons? It will mean less exposure for you. For them.”

“We do.”

“Good.” Holden squinted his eyes against the sun penetrating through the hazy sky. “Don’t linger in Witchwood Cross. Your mother has a feeling that news is imminent.”

“Lady Gretchen has always had keen instincts,” Aylen said, and Christian wondered if it was only he who noticed his father flinch.

Alric at last pulled up on his pony. He settled to a stop, lingering just behind Holden. “Don't forget, the veil is thin in the pass. If you aren't paying the air around you fair mind when you approach the pearapple tree, you might step through.”

Christian and Aylen exchanged a look. Holden closed his eyes, his patience spent before he could conjure it, as it often was with his only living brother.

“I’ve told you not to waste your breath on nonsense about veils.”

“You wouldn’t be so cross with me if you’d stepped through, to Beyond. If you’d returned with me, when I asked, so I could show you.”

Holden’s face blossomed into red fury. He balled his fists tighter around Sorcha’s reins. Many who knew Lord Dereham said he led with emotion, but Christian wondered if any of them had witnessed the tremendous restraint he employed where his brother was concerned. Alric had always been different. Christian couldn't recall a time where his uncle seemed normal. But there were few things that marked him quite so much as his claim to have been to The World Beyond the Sea, that indefinable realm or realms that existed beyond the shores of the kingdom. What made it worst of all was that Alric believed his claim, and this magnified his already legendary lunacy.

“More like to come across a snowbeast,” Holden muttered.

Aylen stepped forward and rested a hand upon Alric’s forearm. “We will practice utmost caution, Sir Alric.”

Alric dropped his head, smiled. “You put an old man’s mind at ease, Lady Aylen.”

The trek out of Wulfsgate was no simple affair. Since news landed of Lord Quinlanden’s betrayal, and the escape of Lady Asherley from Duncarrow, the town existed in a perpetual state of restless anticipation. Lord Dereham had barred all entrances and exits from Wulfsgate except the southern one, and that one was heavily manned, some travelers waiting days to come in, or out. Aylen felt an especial guilt when the guards guided them to the front of the line, ahead of some who had been waiting for many ticks of the sun. If those hiding in the caves were not counting on them for survival, she would have refused the special treatment, subjecting herself to the same treatment as all the others.

She’d known no town of the north to be so fortified. There were always guards, of course. But under normal occasion, only enough to maintain the gates, to watch over the keep. In the past month, all men, and boys old enough to wield a sword, had gone to carrying them. Farmers had been mobilized to soldiers. Even a visit to the market was tense and wrought with worry.

Wulfsgate wasn't unique. Holden had called upon the stewards of all Great Families to follow his lead or risk conquer from The Deceiver—what they’d all taken to calling Aiden Quinlanden after his cowardly seizure of the Westerlands by murdering Lord Byrne under the cover of night. It was evident, he’d said, that the king was in support of The Deceiver’s actions, and thus no one was safe. They could only rely on themselves to protect what was theirs.

Aiden’s men hadn't come. The last word of him was that he’d sailed to Duncarrow to present his gift of the Westerlands to the king. He’d been there since, plotting, spurring even more terrified rumors of a coming onslaught. Between Lord Quinlanden and King Eoghan, they had armies large enough to subdue the Northerlands and Southerlands without significant effort. Aylen didn’t know what they were waiting for, but she was grateful for each day that the Reach had strengthened their skills in battle. Blacksmiths, armors, and bowyers worked by moonlight to supply the endless demand.

You couldn't ride more than a hundred feet without seeing men of all ages practicing their swordplay in the snowbanks. Fathers, teaching sons. Old men, handling steel for the first time in many years. Women, too. In the Northerlands, toughness wasn't reserved only for men. Aylen herself had no fear of her sword, Witchwind, and had skill to spare.

She wished she could tell them what they would soon fight for. That Darrick Rhiagain yet lived. And what was more, he had a son.

But to protect Darrick and Stefan, there was no choice but to preserve these secrets to the hearts of the few sworn to safeguard them. It seemed especially unfair to keep father from son and wife, but within Darrick and Stefan existed two distinct weapons against the usurper king. Holding them at opposite ends of the kingdom did more than preserve their lives. It preserved the future of the entire realm.

Torrin’s Pass was one of the few navigable paths across the long stretch of the Northerland Range. The uneven road was treacherous for anyone unfamiliar with its steep inclines and sharp switches, and even, sometimes, for those who were. But when they’d all huddled by the fire in the keep, whispering their plan, Aylen hadn’t hesitated to raise her hand when this assignment was presented. Someone had to take the risks, and she was the only healer properly authorized to perform this gift. As part of their banishment from the Sepulchre, she was given permission to heal, in service. We came here to serve, she told Christian. Only the Guardians know what they’ve been through. What injuries may have befallen them on their way to safety.

This was their second trip through the mountains to visit the refugees. When they’d departed for the first trip—the day after the messenger brought news of those convening in the cave—Gretchen had thrown herself at Holden’s feet and begged to go see her Pieter. It was a terrible thing to witness. Holden had reminded her she had no business in Witchwood Cross, and her joining them would only draw unneeded attention. She’d relented, but Aylen saw the slow death begin behind her eyes and so, later, she’d gone to Gretchen’s chambers and asked what she could bring on her behalf, for Pieter.