by C D Beaudin
What did Revera do to him? Did she really force the Dia on him? How is that even possible? Every time he tried to go into the Besged state…if he had…it would have been the Dia? This whole situation just confuses him, but what he must do is as clear as day.
He must die.
Revera must have been planning this so she could use him to kill Awyn and the others.
That isn’t going to happen. I’ll die before I let myself hurt them again.
“So selfless.”
He looks up at the voice.
Revera stands at the cave’s mouth, the blizzard behind her. “It makes me sick, really. Giving up one’s own life to save another. It just doesn’t make sense.” She walks closer to him, shaking her head. “What are you doing here, Aradon? You should be on your throne, making your father proud.”
She walks behind him, her hand trailing his shoulders.
Then she whispers in his ear, “But what’s stopping you isn’t the question. It’s who.”
“No. No, I’m not going to listen to you,” Aradon says as he stands, backing away from the sorceress.
“But why not? I have the answers to your questions, even the ones you haven’t asked yet.” She approaches. “Why is Kaniel dead? Why aren’t you on your throne? Why is Sefa dead?”
“Don’t say her name!” he yells, putting his hands over his ears, feeling his heart thump faster and faster.
“She’s dead because of her,” she shouts.
He looks up at her quietly.
“You know it’s the truth.” She walks closer to him. “If it weren’t for Awyn, Kaniel would be home safe and sound. If it weren’t for Awyn, Sefa would be alive, along with her father. Kepp would never have tried to kill his brother. And this war would never have started.”
His eyes narrow. “She didn’t ask to be born,” he says quietly.
“But she asked for war the moment she stepped foot off the palace steps. She asked for tragedy once she went beyond the bridge. She asked for death the moment she entered the Dark Woods!”
“But...” Aradon, realizing he has nothing to say, stays quiet.
“Aradon, what is left for you here?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. I will never claim my kingdom, will I?” He says it as a question, but he already knows the answer.
“You will.”
He stares at her, not expecting that.
“You can with my help. If you do one last thing for me, I will help you make your father proud.”
“No. I will not be one of your servants again.”
Revera walks behind him, her lips inches from his ear. “But you will be king. You will be able to go home.”
The thought makes Aradon want to say yes to her, but he knows he can’t get involved with her plans.
“No, I—”
“I will bring Sefa back.”
At the words, every doubt, every concern leaves his thoughts. Sefa could…be resurrected? No, surely that’s impossible.
But then he remembers Harden. But he was undead, not alive. He was gray, sickly and…dead.
He shakes his head, not wanting that for Sefa. “You can’t—”
“Don’t you remember how they were created? Through magic. The Tanea were once gold sculptures but were turned alive by Aiocille.” She looks him in the eyes. “I can do that for you. And more.”
She smiles.
“I can give you an army that no man can conquer. You will have Nomarah, and the crown of Idies will rest on your head. Its rightful place.” She brings her lips back to his ear. “Don’t you want to make your father proud? Don’t you want to see Sefa’s smile again?”
He trembles. “Why did you do this to me? What would forcing the Dia on me achieve?”
Her chin rises. “Balance.”
“Balance for me? Or for you?”
She tilts her head, her eyes hiding everything. “You haven’t answered my question, yet. Do you want to see your precious Sefa again? All it will take is a little spilled blood.” She presses her hand to his chest. “And when have you ever had a problem with that?”
Light shines under her palm, red and hot. A burning sensation fills him, and he yelps at the pain. The red light shines through his body, until Revera drops her hand, and Aradon collapses to the ground.
Vergo’s Pass reveals itself through the mountains. No longer a purple haze, the steep mountain face can be seen on either side of the wide pass. The beacons on either side, high on the mountain, become lit as the group emerges from the mountainous valley behind them.
A light layer of snow falls. The Ceo River they have followed for days curves off into the Desert of Asgoreth. The Meran Mountains rise high into the blue infinity above, the gray and black steep rock face covered in patches of heavy snow. On the ground, walking becomes trudging as the snow comes to nearly their knees.
As they approach the base of the mountain, they are met with a group of six guards. They wear the Meran symbol, the Everstar, on their silver breastplates. The padded jacket underneath is heavier for the winter time. Metal helmets curve over their cheeks and swords glint at their sides.
“Who goes there?” one of them says, his voice deep.
Eldowyn dismounts, but Awyn is already on her feet and walking toward them.
“I am Princess Awyn, daughter of King Daron. I have come back to claim my throne.”
Silence follows.
Eldowyn rushes to her. “They’re not going to believe you,” he whispers into her ear.
The soldiers start laughing, and Awyn winces at her mistake, but quickly regains her composure.
“Why are you laughing?” she asks.
The soldier who spoke steps toward her, and Eldowyn’s hand falls to the hilt of his sword.
“Because, Princess Awyn is dead. She fell into the ground. The palace servants saw her die. It is not possible for you to be her and claiming such a thing is treason.”
Awyn blinks. “Treason?”
In the next second the soldier grabs her arm, and Eldowyn puts his sword to the soldier’s neck. The five other guards take out their weapons. Those on the horses dismount—Kepp, Saine, and Hagard are ready to fight.
“Take your hands off her,” Eldowyn says.
The soldier swallows nervously at the blade to his throat but doesn’t let Awyn go.
“You must understand this is my duty. General Babinoux has ordered all possible threats to the throne be brought to the palace for judgment.”
Awyn glances at Eldowyn, telling him with her expression to let him take them to the palace.
Reluctantly, Eldowyn sheaths his sword.
“Fine, but you’ll have to take all of us if you want her.”
The soldier breathing normally now, hesitantly nods.
“Bind them,” he orders the other soldiers. Turning to the travelers, he says, “I’m Lieutenant Arkov.”
Awyn doesn’t say anything, only winces when she’s jolted forward as the soldiers begin to move through the pass.
It’s not a wonder why they wouldn’t get her confused with Revera. The soldiers here are much more used to the sorceress than those in Rohidia, and they know what she looks like. While Awyn is nearly identical to her, she’s not as old as Revera, and while elves don’t age, wisdom comes with appearances.
Though, Revera’s wisdom is…flawed.
The faded sapphire sky above is met with two faces of towering black rock. Through the mountains, only a running, jagged rectangle of sky can be seen.
The snow continues to fall, and it gets harder and harder to move as the snow gets higher, thicker, and heavier. Awyn’s fur cloak drags across the snowy ground, her knee-high, black leather boots just coming over the edge of the powder.
“For the last time, I’m telling the truth. I am the daughter of King Daron and Queen Adara, who is also the sister of my uncle, King Atta, who died in battle not too long ago.”
“We have mourned the loss of our brother to the north. But grieving is short lived when you l
ive in poverty,” the soldier says solemnly.
“But I can help restore Mera to its former glory. This war cannot end unless we fight.”
This is when the soldier turns to her, stopping them from walking.
“Ever since Tamon and the princess died, Revera has left us alone. These mountains shelter us from the war outside.” He shakes his head. “This is not our fight, not our war. The general will make sure we are safe.” He sighs. “In times such as these, safety is all we need, more than the prosperity a monarch can give. And if this war ends, we will make him regent and his family will bring us back to the wealth Daron had given us.” He turns, walking again.
Awyn sighs.
Aradon’s eyes snap open. His vision is blurred, bunches of colors fused together, incomprehensible clouds. He winces as a short spike of pain rushes through his head. He blinks, trying to gain focus and get rid of the blur.
When his vision sharpens, he sees a bedroll and blanket ruffled in front of him, against…a rock wall? He sits up, getting a better look around. A cave. He’s in a cave. He can feel the familiar heat of fire on his back. His face contorts in confusion.
What…where am I? The last thing I remember…how long have I been asleep?
“You must be very confused.”
As if by magic, he whirls around, on his feet in a second.
Revera smiles. “Well, I see you still remember your training. How you can get up like that so quickly still astounds me, and I can raise dead men.”
“Revera, what am I doing here? What happened?” His face contorts. “My head—the last thing I remember, I was chasing Lily.”
“You bumped your head. Passed out. Luckily I saved you before you died.”
He tilts his head slightly, a small smile lingering on his lips, but inside he feels as dark as ever.
“Are you tracking me now?”
Revera smirks, walking over to him.
“And if I was?”
For a moment he just looks at her, studies her. It’s been awhile, since they last saw each other. He steps away, looking around the cave.
“Why do I feel like I’ve been…asleep, for years?”
Revera rolls her eyes. “Only for a few days.”
He nods in understanding, but still feels like there’s a gap, not only in his memory but in time itself. There’s something missing as well…like there’s a certain part of him that’s been…taken.
But he just sighs. “All right.” He looks down, seeing the bronze bow and arrows and picks them up. The feel of the bronze under his fingers is familiar, but he doesn’t recognize the bow at all. “Where did you get this?” He looks at the sorceress.
She hesitates, and he quirks an eyebrow.
“It was given to me.” She walks over to him. “A symbol of power.” She puts her hand on his shoulder. “It is yours now. After what you’ve done for me, you deserve it.”
His brows crinkle. “Uh, but it’s made of bronze. It can’t be bent.”
Revera smirks. “Try.”
He knows having a Besged on her side will help her greatly. Last time he helped her several years ago, he was younger and would do anything to get his hands bloody. Now he’s older and smarter. He thinks she’s crazy, but he holds the bow up anyway, and pulls back the string.
Nothing happens.
He examines the bow, then looks at Revera. “Told you. Bronze can’t be bent.” He puts the bow down.
She seems shocked, but after a moment she eyes him up. “Um…anyway, how do you feel about a new assignment?”
He turns to her, a lustful surge racing through his body. But it’s not for her. It’s for blood. He twirls a dagger between his fingers, casually, without much thought.
“I feel restless...” He lightly throws the dagger, the sharp blade cutting into the cave wall.
Revera swallows, her eyes betraying her nervousness.
Aradon revels in making her scared.
“Why not?” he finishes.
She smiles tentatively at him. “Oh, yes.” She regains her composure. “You must kill Awyn.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Who?”
A day and a half later, the city of Kevah is in full view. The white city would normally shine, but the cloudy sky reveals no sparkle, and just like in Awyn’s dream, a thin shadow seems to loom over the city. The ground level stretches out onto the plains as the second and top levels climb higher on the mountain, the palace above stretching tall, the white stone spire piercing the sky.
There are no travelers. A day ago, they crossed a farmer tending to his scrawny cattle, but other than that, no sign of any life at all.
It’s troublesome really. Awyn loved to see the fields filled with children, horses, and sheep. The ocean would be rolling in the sunlight, and families would gather with lunches and blankets to watch their children play in the sea.
She only swam in the ocean once. Her father didn’t like her in any danger, so he often sheltered her, confining her to the palace or its grounds. But the moments she rode with her father in the mornings she cherished, and the times she went to the ocean she held with precious memory.
As they enter the city, the haggard city folk watch them, eyes tired and bodies shriveled. Inside the ground level houses, fires burn, warming the families in this cold winter. Not many people are outside, but when they hear the soldiers pass, often some will look out to see Awyn and the others bound, being led through the White City.
The princess knows, most probably don’t recognize her. Those on the first and second level wouldn’t. They pass onto the second level where the businesses are. Not to Awyn’s surprise, the markets are empty, only a few homeless souls drift silently.
It would usually bring tears to Awyn’s eyes, to see her home like this, and her people void of any hope or joy, but she’s sure her eyes only reflect determination and anger. She won’t let this go on any longer. She must speak to the general as soon as possible.
When they get to the third level, the few who are outside immediately recognize her. Most of them are servants and soldiers, doing laundry and standing around a fire trying to keep warm. The soldiers—who Awyn now recognizes as palace guards, not normal infantry—stand when they see her. Some even take a few steps in her direction, as if they want to speak to her, or grab her and protect her. But they don’t do anything. They just stare at her in awe and shock. Awyn can tell a few others think she’s Revera. It doesn’t surprise her, she looks a lot like her aunt. Just because these people know Revera better than most, doesn’t mean from a glance they can’t tell who’s who.
As they ascend the few steps to the palace grounds, Awyn sees the dead cherry tree as they walk through the snowy, white stone courtyard. The pool of water is iced over. Everything is just…dead.
“Awyn.” She looks back as Kepp puts his hand on her shoulder, whispering to her, “Are you all right?”
Awyn nods solemnly, but her pain must betray her small smile.
“No talking,” Arkov says.
Kepp steps back to his position in line.
They continue to walk through the courtyard until they get to the palace steps, and Awyn freezes.
Flashbacks of her escape from imprisonment rush through her mind. She starts sweating and breathing rapidly as she stares at the white steps. Her vision seems to warp as she glances up at the white doors, closed shut and guarded.
“Awyn.” The voice sounds like she’s underwater. “Awyn, what’s wrong?”
She closes her eyes, trying to shake off the memories, the pain that makes up this castle.
“I’m…” She takes a deep breath. “I’m fine.” The exhalation clears her mind. She takes another breath. “I never had time to remember during the battle...but now it’s as fresh as the snowfall.”
The soldiers stare at her, and she can see belief in Arkov’s eyes. If it is the belief in who she is, she cannot be certain, but she hopes that’s the case.
Adriel stays by her side as they enter the palace. She was the one
who had asked if Awyn was all right. The soldiers don’t fight her on her new placement.
Awyn’s breath nearly escapes her when she steps inside. The golden ceiling above, the white walls, the white floor. She chokes down the urge to cry, tears making her eyes glisten. Every corner, every surface of this hall—of every corridor in this palace—has a memory so dear to her, good or bad.
It isn’t the same now. When Tamon was alive, the palace seemed more a mission to her, than a home. A place. But now he’s gone…the safety of the mission has left, and the vulnerability of her past chokes her.
Adriel steps closer to her. “Let’s go.”
Awyn gives her a grateful nod.
When they turn a corner, Awyn stops in her tracks. In front of her, down the hall, are the white doors. The golden handles shine in the light leaking from the windows. She can’t take her eyes off them as she remembers running from the kitchen, screaming for the guards as she ran to her mother’s room. The sound of breaking wood as the guard broke down the door, and the cry that left her throat when she saw her mother lying in a pool of her own blood.
A tear caresses her cheek.
“What’s wrong?” Arkov demands an answer.
Eldowyn looks at the Meran. “She’s remembering.”
Arkov’s look penetrates her silence, and she can hear his thoughts. How can this be our ruler? How can this be the lost princess? She’s dead.
She’s dead.
Awyn knows she’s dead.
John Babinoux sits at his desk pouring over papers and documents, maps spread across the table. A half-empty pitcher of wine sits beside him, among the mounds of chaos that are military maps and books on running a kingdom.
He’s never been much of a reader. Battle tactics is why he’s a general, and why he’s still alive today. He’s never failed Daron, but now—almost a regent king—he can’t rally his mind around all these histories he must read and maps he must memorize. Routes he must plan.
Building a country isn’t easy, he expected that much, but not being cut out for it is a surprise to him.