by Nick Martell
I didn’t want to be forgotten.
But so long as my friends remembered me, I wouldn’t be completely gone. Maybe, if I was lucky, they would tell their children about me. Back when my biggest worry was where I was getting money to pay for my mother to remain in the asylum. Back when I was a fool who couldn’t see all the good that was in front of me.
In the days that followed my guilty verdict—and I use “days” lightly, as who truly knows how long I was in that dark cell?—I thought about my life. All the anger I had used as fuel for years eventually soothed into sorrow as I thought of everything I would miss: seeing my friends, attending Lyon’s wedding and holding his child, teasing Gwen, falling in love with the perfect person, having children, staring at the stars, and so much more. I finally understood what it was like to live a life full of regrets. It made me cry at first. But eventually I cried so much to myself in the darkness that I simply couldn’t anymore. I would sit there numb, knowing I was doing the right thing.
I didn’t want to. More than anything, I wanted to feel the light against my skin, its warmth. Or see a whole moon with a sky full of stars around it. Something simple. It would never happen, though. The only light I saw was when the guards would come and give me enough food and water to sustain my life long enough to die for them. Yet, I cherished seeing that brief sliver of light that shone from behind the metal door as if it were the sun, and hoped its glow would nourish me. It never did, but it was something tangible that let me know a world still existed beyond this cell. The world that had shunned me.
Only once was there ever any more light. It appeared out of nowhere, a dull, low, breathing flame contained in a lantern. It kept coming closer and closer to me, enticing me with its back-and-forth dance. I was so entranced by it that I didn’t notice Angelo until he was in front of me, with the lantern in one hand and a slim book in the other.
His voice was the first I had heard in a seemingly endless amount of time. I don’t even know if I understood his words at first. “Michael, it’s Angelo. I’m here to see you. Are you well? Can I come in?”
I nodded slowly. I wasn’t positive he wasn’t a figment of my imagination yet. The darkness had tricked me before, but if I was hallucinating someone, Lyon would have made more sense. Gwen even more.
Angelo fumbled with the locks, opened the cell door, and then took a seat on the floor directly across from me, setting the lantern between us. A coarse black beard had grown in; I’d never seen him with one before.
“How’re you doing, Michael? Are they looking after you?”
I nodded slowly as I rubbed the itchy skin beneath my shackles.
“That’s good.” He paused. “I’m here to tell you the execution will be tomorrow at midday. I’ve been entrusted to hear your final statements. Lyon fought for me rather than a Scorcher or a Reclaimer to witness your last wishes, and I hope you’re fine with that. Is there anything you want me to tell anyone before… it happens?”
My last wishes. My last words. The way I would be remembered. Words that could be twisted and mistaken for another’s need. No, it might be harder for them in the long run, but my silence would protect them all. I would die without saying a word. They would forgive me one day.
I curled my legs up to my chest and remained silent.
Angelo sighed. “I suspected as much, honestly,” he said. “It’s why I brought this book. It’s one of the volumes of The Journal of the Archmage. It’s one of my favorite sections, and I don’t think you’ve read it, so I wanted to read it to you. I know you enjoyed them, son.”
I nodded. It would take a lifetime to read all of them. There wasn’t enough time for me to anymore. It was a shame I’d never identified what the Mercenaries had been looking for all those years ago. Or why a piece of Celona had claimed that the Kingman was a traitor when I knew my father was far from it. Maybe neither detail was important. At this point, neither mattered.
Angelo cleared his throat and began the tale:
I don’t think I’ll ever understand what power is. Even after all these years of research and studying Fabrications, I still feel like an apprentice on the subject. Truthfully, I feel further from the answers I pursue than ever. Have I just been spinning in place, blind to how the world is changing around me? How can I even begin to understand the nature of power when no one shares a common definition of it?
Is power the ability to protect our friends and family? Is it an ever-burning desire to shape the world as we see fit? Is it love? Or is it something else? Is it something that we can’t collectively define because we’re all so different? Can a man who takes power after losing his wife be faulted for taking action to protect his children? I don’t know. And it concerns me. How am I supposed to make amends for this immortal life if I can’t even figure out how to best use it? I feel like a child. Maybe I’ve lived so long I’ve forgotten what it’s like to fear death. Maybe my atonement should be finding a way to kill immortals. Certainly, if I have reached this state, others have, too, and humans are not supposed to live forever. We live our lives to their fullest and then die, hoping we did something memorable in our brief time alive.
Even after all this time, it was still always about power.
Angelo closed the book gently, laying his right hand against it. “This passage always comforted me after my wife died. I hope it’s brought a little comfort to you before you go, son.”
I exhaled deeply, my focus returning to the flickering fire in the lantern, throwing its light into the corners and over the stone, memorizing it so that when Angelo left, I would still be able to picture it in my mind. Then I wouldn’t be in the darkness anymore. There was just enough light to see the ring on his right hand, which he was always knocking against things: I could just make out the sigil.
An iron ring with the crest of a crown being pulled apart by two hands engraved on it.
It was the same symbol on the bullets that killed Davey and Isaac Hollow.
A nearly exact opposite rendition of the Kingman family crest.
Which Alexander Ryder claimed was the Tosburg Mercenary Company’s sigil.
A Mercenary company that had attacked Hollow, trying to obtain The Journal of the Archmage from the library.
Which would have failed no matter what, as it would have taken a lifetime to read all the Archmage’s journals in there.
A lifetime of peace and solitude that a Mercenary could never have had.
A life that only a noble, Royal, or highly privileged person would have.
A life that would have led to a marriage and children. Or even adopted children.
I looked into Angelo Shade’s grey, smoky eyes.
Eyes so distinct yet nearly perfect replicas of Dark’s.
Eyes that Domet had claimed a boy and his father had. People he had told the secrets of achieving immortality to.
Eyes he had never forgotten. And now eyes that had been passed down throughout their family.
Along with their profession.
It was in that moment I knew, more than I knew anything in my entire life, that the man who was responsible for framing my father was sitting in my cell, reading me a story before I was sent to the gallows. And he had called me son.
“It was your company all along,” I mumbled, a twinge in my throat from disuse. “The gun, the assassination, the journals—all of it. You raised and mentored me and said I was the son you wished you had… Was it one last insult to my father? Did you want to take his children from him after taking his life?”
Angelo shifted, leaning closer to me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said. Could you repeat it?”
“Tosburg Company. All those years ago on the Day of Crowning. It was yours, wasn’t it?”
Silence.
I stared into his eyes. I knew. And he knew it. He couldn’t hide in the darkness anymore. I knew who he was. I knew what he did. I knew everything now. A simple slip of the tongue and a little arrogance was all it took. He shouldn’t have been brazen enough
to wear the ring. Not in front of me. And all those times I hadn’t paid attention, and my answer had been right there. If I had been a better man, King Isaac would still be alive. Because of me, Angelo had two Royals and two Kingman as notches in his gun.
No, I was wrong. He didn’t have me yet.
Angelo knocked his ring against the stone and the clang of it echoed through the cell, heating my skin. All those times he had done that. The answer had been so close. But my blood didn’t boil in anger; it just focused on him as if I were taking aim.
“I think I should leave, Michael,” he said. “I don’t want to aggravate you. It was never my intention to, honestly. I hope you’ve enjoyed our time together and understand that… I was trying to help you. Nothing more. I took you in because I was the only one who saw the potential you had, to be something greater than your father ever was. I suppose, in a way, being a king killer is a step up from murdering a prince.”
“Why? That’s all I want to know.”
“Michael, I don’t know what you’ve come up with in your head while you’ve been in this maddening darkness for so long. But I would advise you not to make accusations that you have no evidence to support. The law can be a cruel mistress that destroys families in its unrelenting pursuit of the truth. It would be a shame if something happened to Lyon, his unborn child, or Gwen in their sleep, wouldn’t it?”
I bit down on my tongue as Angelo left without another word. I watched the flame in his lantern vanish up the staircase. But as the light faded, the cold stayed at bay and I was left with a sharp focus on the truth. Since my last attempt to find the truth had brought me here, alone and about to be executed, I had to be careful. Going after it again could cost others dearly.
I was at a crossroad. I knew it was Angelo, and he wore the evidence. His son carried the twin of the gun that had killed Davey and Isaac Hollow. But he was threatening my family and friends, and Domet was no protection against him. After all this, I couldn’t go after him using the law.
The warmth returned, slithering over my skin. It felt like an insult, reminding me of who I was and what I could have been if I hadn’t been obsessed with my family’s legacy.
I took a deep breath, exhaled, and waited.
THE EXECUTION OF MICHAEL KINGMAN
Every move from dungeon to nondescript house to nondescript house on the day of my execution was so strategic and planned out, I thought I was going to die from the boredom of the routine rather than on the executioner’s block. I almost wished someone would just shoot me in the streets mid-transport to end my suffering. At least we were only a few hundred yards from the Church of the Wanderer now. Advocators were hustling and bustling around me, making sure everything was perfect. Only the Ravens that guarded me looked calm. Only they seemed to know this was an execution, not a festival.
A squad leader, his clothes recently laundered, his black shoes shined, and decorated in medals, approached us. This was his day as much as mine. He saluted Rowan Kerr, the three-feathered Raven, and said, “Raven, we’re ready to move to the execution block. The Warden is waiting for me to transfer the chains to him. Are you ready to proceed?”
Three Feathers nodded. “I’ll take the front and Chloe the rear. You may unlock and transfer the chains.”
“Yes, Raven.” The commander knelt as he took a key from his pocket and unlocked the chain that bound me to the floor. He held it firmly, the key back in his inner jacket pocket. “Rise, king killer.”
My legs had just enough strength in them to stand on cue, wavering back and forth to the find balance. Only a little longer left. Soon my body would be able to rest.
“Move, king killer!” the commander howled, yanking on my shackles. My knees buckled, and I collapsed under my own weight, falling against him. He shoved me off him, and I hit the floor with a loud crash.
The commander kicked me in the torso and pain spiked through my body. Everything went fuzzy and white as I stared at the ground, hands closed tightly.
Chloe grabbed me by the neck and hauled me back to my feet. “Commander, watch yourself. He has to be able to walk to his execution and look unharmed before the people. Do I make myself clear?”
The commander hesitated and then bowed to her. “Yes, Raven.” He took my chains again and led me more gently toward the exit.
My senses were overwhelmed when he opened the door.
I could smell everything, from the rotten vegetables ready to be thrown at me to the hot metal smell that lingered in the air. There was a bitter twinge on my tongue when the Warden took my chains from the squad leader and wrapped them around his gauntlet. The roar of the crowd all merged together into white noise. I wasn’t even lucky enough to die with blue skies above me. Grey clouds shrouded the sun instead. Such was my luck.
The Warden, encased in armor, lead me down a narrow path through the crowds of people toward the Church of the Wanderer. Three Feathers was in front of him as Chloe watched me from behind. Advocators created a barrier between my escort and everyone else. No doubt there were Evokers watching for anyone suspicious in the crowds. They weren’t going to take any chances. Not with me. Not today. Not after what had happened in the courtroom.
The executioner’s block was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. The great stone church was behind it, glowing a pale white with all the Moon’s Tears that covered it. All the major players in Hollow were waiting at the top of the stairs behind it for me—except for the princess, which made no sense when she was in Hollow. Captain Efyra and the Corrupt Prince stood on the sides of it, the prince with a big grin on his face and an executioner’s ax in his hands. Clearly, he had decided he’d rather kill me himself than force my brother to do it.
My bodyguards dropped me off at the block, locking my chains so I was kneeling in front of it. They took their place behind me. My knuckles rested against the wood so I could feel something before the ax came down on my neck.
To the left, Captain Efyra raised her hand to silence the crowd and then shouted, “We are gathered here today to witness the execution of Michael Kingman for the crime of regicide. May this day serve as a reminder to all that the enemies of Hollow will be caught and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Hollow will always have justice, and this is what happens to traitors of Hollow. No longer will they be able to—”
She was such a performer. It wasn’t even worth listening to her. She was just telling the crowd what they wanted to hear, to restore some of the confidence that the commoners had in their government—especially after the Emperor had escaped justice—and I was the sacrifice to do it. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Angelo entered the Church of the Wanderer. I guess he wasn’t going to watch the show unfold. Didn’t he want to see his handiwork in person?
I must’ve missed the end of her speech, because the crowd was cheering as Efyra swapped places with the Corrupt Prince. It was time for the main event.
“Enough!” shouted a voice from behind me.
I couldn’t turn my head fully, but I caught a glimpse of the Reclaimer—and all the monks—filing out of the church.
“I won’t let you kill him,” the Reclaimer proclaimed. “I watched his father die on these steps and I won’t let another Kingman die like this. I do not give permission—”
The Corrupt Prince strode over, grabbed the Reclaimer, and slammed his head against the side of the church. There were popping sounds as brittle old bones snapped and collapsed, and then it was over. A few people gasped and looked away, but most had watched, unmoving.
I felt sick as his blood began to trickle over the stones. I had tricked and stolen from him, and the old man had still defended me—and had died for nothing… Foolish old man… I hoped he found peace in whatever afterlife there was for his following.
“Interfering with an execution is punishable by death,” the Corrupt Prince said. “Does anyone else wish to speak up, or do we have the Church’s permission to continue?”
No one moved as the prince returned to hi
s spot, and the hairs prickled on the back of my neck as the ax hovered over it.
This was it.
For everything I was or had been, I had never really come to terms with what I was. I wasn’t a noble, not even before my family had been disgraced and abandoned to wolves. This past week had taught me that: I would never be able to conform to their lives or play the games of nobility. Even at my best I had been tricked and manipulated. I wouldn’t have liked the person I would’ve become if I had remained a High Noble, but I had learned what they stood for and made myself better in the process.
I hadn’t accepted that until I had been thrown in a dungeon, deprived of light, with nothing to occupy my mind. I wasn’t a noble, or a thief, or a con man, but I wasn’t some common citizen either. I was Michael… Michael Kingman. And how I would be remembered didn’t matter in the end, so long as my family and friends knew I loved them.
The Corrupt Prince began to lift the ax high into the air above my neck.
Although I did know how to pickpocket.
And it had been easier to steal from a cocky commander in the streets than from a king in his castle.
The key to my irons slipped out under my sleeve and fell into the keyhole as if drawn to it. I unlocked it with my deft fingers as the ax began to fall. The ax slammed against the block and, having found nothing, shook as if lightning had struck it. I whipped the irons at the Corrupt Prince. He screamed, dropped the executioner’s ax, and held his face, blood gushing everywhere.
As if I were going to go quietly. There was still one last thing to do.
The crowds didn’t have time to react, and before anyone had a crossbow drawn, my body was nullified and I had my chains wrapped around Chloe’s throat, taking her hostage in front of her mother. My other hand, the one that wasn’t choking her, drew her sword to keep back those closest to me. Waving it frantically, I backed away from everyone, the entrance to the Church of the Wanderer behind me.
Efyra, Captain of the Ravens, pointed her sword at me but raised her hand to everyone around us. “No one fire! Not while my daughter is in the way! Let her go, Kingman! I swear to God, I won’t let you take another!”