by C. E. Olson
“Varis,” he says after a moment. “Varis Kester.”
Horror replaces curiosity. “Y— I know you! You're the Fae Hammer!”
“Not anymore. He died a few months ago. Now go, you need a healer or you're going to lose your leg. Adrenaline and a tunic won't help you for long.”
Fear alone seems to drive him as he stumbles and limps into a medic tent. Varis is sure it's only a matter of seconds before he's surrounded and killed for helping, yet no one comes out. No one around the tent seems to notice him, either, and for once... he's invisible for the right reasons. Not because he's trying to sneak around and attack, but because he doesn't pose a threat at all.
The thought nearly makes him laugh. He wonders what Naslan would've had to say about this had he lived to see it, but the opinions of dead traitors matter little compared to those of the ones he loves. With a new resolve, Varis searches the landscape for any sign of Reeve or Aine, but he's too far behind enemy lines to make much out. Carefully, he doubles back even further to head around the outside of the fray, then ditches the breastplate that makes it hard for him to breathe even though it shouldn't.
“Trys!” he calls out to the telepathic peryton, hoping he's close enough to hear. “I need a ride.”
Precious seconds pass as the war rages on without him. Part of him feels like a traitor, a coward, for hiding in the shadows while men and Fair Folk alike fight the battle he sparked, but with any luck, it'll be over soon. He just needs to do the impossible first.
When Trys screeches behind him, Varis whirls and sighs with relief. He takes a moment to pet Trys’ snout and thank the gods that he's unscathed, then quickly mounts him. “Take me to the archers, I need to check on Reeve. Do you know where Balian is hiding?”
“Yes.”
The breeze feels good as they take to the sky, but they're almost instantly under attack by the very archers they're going to see. Varis curses the fact that they assume he's Fae because of Trys, but his peryton is nothing if not a skilled, formidable flier. He does his best to hang on as they drop down and zig-zag through the barrage, and Reeve’s voice screaming at them all to stop shooting reaches his ears.
“That's Varis, you fucking twats!”
Trys lands roughly and Varis pulls Reeve into a hug the instant his feet hit the ground. “You're alive,” he says breathlessly.
“Are you?” he shoots back. “You're covered in blood. Tell me it's not yours.”
Varis shakes his head. “Not all of it, anyway. Listen, we don't have much time. I need your help.”
“Anything.” Reeve draws his bow quickly and fires off an arrow just behind him, then snaps at Varis to speak faster.
“We need to find Balian and convince him to end this,” Varis yells over the renewed sound of cannons. “These people aren't our enemies.”
Reeve’s eyes flick frantically between his own. “Are you mad? You want to go ask the King to sue for peace? Look around you, Varis. We’re winning. He'll never say yes.”
“He has to. We’re not winning for long, we’re still surrounded, and I know our army better than anyone. We don't have it in us to win this, and the Fae we’re fighting against are barely fully grown. This is our fault, Reeve. All of it, we said it last night.”
Slowly, his brother accepts what he's saying. “And if Balian murders you on the spot for even suggesting it?”
Another loud boom causes Varis to pause until it's over. “Then I guess you'll add ‘King Killer’ to your considerable résumé,” he says softly. “I don't expect any of us to live through this day if he says no.”
“Then you'd better be convincing.” Reeve slides the arrow he had nocked back into his quiver and tucks his bow before getting on Trystrel’s back. “Where are the others?”
“Safe,” Varis says as he joins him. “I sent Echo to guard them, so as long as they stay together and stay put, they'll be fine. Let’s go ensure it's not for nothing.”
Trys is slower taking off this time and swoops under the onslaught of Fae light that Erathor’s soldiers unleash toward the dragons above them. Varis holds onto his brother as tightly as he can as they speed over growing mounds of bodies, pools of blood, and the sounds of the battle below — and as they pass the tent he knows Aine and Laix are in, he nearly asks Trys to stop. But if he allows himself to see Aine in this moment, he's likely to simply run. Admitting how much he's changed and how strongly he feels about ending the conflict won't be easy for him, particularly when the King feels the opposite and already wants to kill him, but he has to try — try, not run. That window has already closed.
“We’re here,” Trys says as he angles sharply down and drops from the sky like a bomb. “Third tent from the right. I can hear him.”
Varis braces himself for impact and staggers a little once he's on his feet again, but shakes it off quickly and heads for the tent with Reeve on his heels. They're stopped by two guards outside but neither give them much trouble once they see who they are, and Varis pushes the flap to the side as he ducks in.
“Your Grace, may I have a word with you?”
Balian sets his goblet down and scoffs. “Imagine that. The mighty Fae Hammer has run away from battle. Speak, and it better be good.”
You're one to talk, Varis thinks. “We’re surrounded. I’d imagine you've gathered that much by now, but I'm here to officially request that you end this. Talk to Erathor. Work something out, but stop this war. We’re not going to win.”
“Of course we won't win,” Balian snaps. “It was over the second they surrounded us. But if you'd get your ass out there and fight like you're commanded to, we may have a shot at lasting a little longer.”
“And what good will that do?” Varis asks. “What good will any of this do if your entire army is decimated in a single battle? Do you really think this'll be the last of it even if we do manage to come out on top here? The dead are already starting to outnumber the living on both sides, Erathor has to be made to see reason,” he nearly begs. “You need to see reason, Your Grace.”
Balian releases a breath. “I've looked reason in the face and decided it's ugly,” he says sharply. “If Erathor was willing to call a truce, he'd have sent someone by now. Instead, he's leading the army that crossed the Baldes. What kind of a king does that?”
A good one. “Your Grace—”
“Go look out there,” Reeve interjects. “Go spend six seconds out there and then walk back in here and tell him you want to keep this going. There's no point to this war.”
Balian stands with rage written across his rounded features. “Watch the way you speak to me, boy.”
“If you want to be addressed like a king, act like one, not a spoiled little boy,” Reeve spits back, and Varis draws his sword and stands between them.
“Enough!” he yells. “Your Grace, if you don't want to make peace, at least send word to end the fighting for the day. We need to clear the killing field and bury our dead, and you should offer them the same courtesy. We need time to try and reach King Rhal again if you're going to insist on continuing this.”
Balian spits on the ground by Varis’ feet. “Fuck my cousin. He ignored the call, and I won't ask again.”
“You're going to let your pride ruin a kingdom, Your Grace,” Varis says bluntly. “Think about this. The sun is beginning to set. What do you think the Lunar Court will be capable of when the moon is fully visible overhead? They're certainly not going to get weaker, and it's possible that they're the ones trying to last just a little longer. For all we know, they're taking it easy on us.”
The reminder of exactly who they're fighting seems to be the first thing Balian takes seriously. His chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath with an almost deranged look on his face, but just when Varis is preparing to kill the King himself, Balian deflates.
“Fine!” he yells. “Send the damned messenger to that useless twat and see if we can cease for the night. Offer whatever you need to except for surrender. Now get out of my tent before I change
my mind.”
Reeve grabs Varis’ arm and yanks him backward and out of the tent, then relays the message verbatim to the first boy he finds that'll accept a coin and a risky job since Edis is nowhere to be found. They watch together as he weaves through the soldiers completely unnoticed, and Varis starts to relax only once he’s out of sight.
“What do we do if Erathor says no?” Reeve asks, but Varis has no idea how to answer that without suggesting they flee.
“I don't know. I guess we’ll decide that if it happens. For now, we should go find the others. I think things are going to get worse before they get better.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Varis and Reeve fight their way back to Trys as the Lunar Court’s army starts to get closer to their tents. The moment they reach him, he sends a silent command for the peryton to take them straight to Aine and Laix. Part of him feels bad for leaving everyone else to fight the battle without him, but he’s past the point of being able to fight for a cause he doesn’t believe in and his world has narrowed to the three people most important to him. To hell with the rest of them.
“We need to get them out of here,” Reeve hisses as the tent just a few yards down catches fire. “Where are we supposed to go? We can’t all fit on Trystrel.”
Sliding to the ground, Varis ignores his brother and dashes into the tent, looking frantically around until he confirms that both Aine and Laix are safe. Echo nearly rips his face off, but the sight of Reeve right behind him calms her and allows him to make his way safely past her to wrap Aine up in a hug. “You’re safe,” he breathes.
“Not hard to be safe when I’m hiding in here like a child,” she scolds, but her lips ghosting over his skin tell a different story. “What happened out there?”
He glances at Vaenor and the rest of Aine’s company, wondering if any of them saw the field of battle or if they stayed by her side. “War, Aine. You know what’s happening.”
She holds him tighter and scolds him for removing his armor. “So now what do we do? Wait?”
“Yes,” he says reluctantly. “This will be one of the worst parts.”
And it is. Every second they spend in that tent as the battle rages around them makes him uneasy to the point that he feels like he could crawl right out of his skin, but he knows better than to engage. The moment the messenger finds Erathor, this will be over — or, at least halted — and going back out there will only mean a higher body count when that finally comes to pass. Still, each second is tantamount to torture.
When the horns sound again, Varis nearly crumples with relief. “They got the message,” he whispers. “Erathor agreed to stop fighting for the night. We can go back.”
“Are you sure?” Laix asks skeptically. “What if it’s a trick?”
Varis doesn’t know the answer to that. “We’ll have to take that chance. There are people — friends — that I left out there to die. I need to know how badly I failed them.”
“You didn’t fail anyone.” Reeve restocks his quiver and heads for the tent’s entrance. “Come on.”
The carnage outside is borderline unbelievable. Varis does his best to shield Aine from the worst of it, but ultimately gives up and holds her hand as they step over bodies and fallen horses to get back to the King. Each face he sees feels like a knife to his traitorous, cowardly heart, but he vows that one way or another, he’ll see to it that no one else dies in this war. He doesn’t care what he has to do to make that happen.
“Varis, you can’t,” Aine hisses as she yanks him back by his arm. It takes him by surprise until he remembers that she can read his mind, she just typically chooses not to. “You’ve already killed one King. Killing two more is suicide.”
“Or a trifecta,” Varis argues. “It’s all about perspective, Your Grace, and my perspective is that two heads are better than tens of thousands. Where do you think this will end if someone doesn’t do something?”
Aine grimaces. “Does it matter where it ends? These are humans and Fae. That we lived in peace for so long is a miracle. It will never end, and I’m not sure it’s our job to care anymore.”
It’s not lost on Varis how hard that must’ve been for her to say, so instead of fighting her about it, he nods and kisses her knuckles. “You’re right. But we have to try something. If it doesn’t work, we’ll run. Deal?”
“Deal.”
They don’t say much else after that as they trek back to the King’s tent to await orders or news. Balian is busy making plans when they arrive, so they agree to help burn the bodies of the unidentified soldiers and dig a grave for the rest, and with each body he passes, he searches for friends. Batkin and Louvel are the first two he comes across that he knows by name, but he finds it hard to grieve much for either of them. Gerves, on the other hand, is a different story. They may have had their differences over the years, but Gerves was always an ally to him when he really needed it. Varis makes a point to dig him a separate grave with its own marker in thanks for his service.
With each new face, he prays he doesn’t see Watt. He gets his wish right up until the man himself nearly tackles him into the blood-soaked dirt. “You fucking twat! Where’d you go!”
“Away from you,” Varis says out of instinct as he shoves him away. “Gods, I’m glad you’re alive.”
Watt’s chest heaves as his face contorts with anger, but suddenly, it melts away and Watt pulls him into a hug. “You too. Let’s hope it stays that way when this shit starts right back up again tomorrow.”
Again, Varis feels compelled to stop that from happening. “Just hang tight, Watt. For all we know, anything can happen between now and then.”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.” He shakes his head as he wipes his face and covers his nose to block out the smell, then wanders off to help the others load the bodies of the Fair Folk on wheelbarrows to take to Erathor.
Varis helps as much as he can but ultimately gravitates back toward Aine and his brother. Being away from them for even a second is painful — the peace feels too fragile to count on, especially with Balian’s threat constantly running through his mind. No matter how confident he is that Balian won’t set his sights on Aine until the Lunar Court is safely back in the Golden Realm, his King is known to be brash and stupid when his pride is threatened, and no one in the Three Kingdoms could pretend that Aine didn’t do exactly that.
He finds them tending to some of Ostusen’s injured, and watching her heal complete strangers that were once her enemy makes his chest tighten. Varis is just about to join them when the heavy, quick sound of hoofbeats draws his attention behind him, and he spins to see a soldier carrying a shield with the Lunar Court’s emblem racing past. “Oye!” he yells to the others before following the horse, but instead of going into the tent once the messenger dismounts, Varis stays outside to eavesdrop.
“Your Grace,” the Fae man says, “I have a message from King Erathor. He thanks you for the chance to burn our dead and regroup, and he sends me with an offer for peace. Will you listen?”
“Go on, then. If he wants to surrender after a single day, I can respect that.”
The messenger trips over his words until Balian barks at him to spit it out, which sends a shiver of foreboding down Varis’ spine. Somehow, he knows what’s coming before it actually does. “He’s not surrendering, Your Grace. Not exactly. He wants the Fae Hammer.”
Varis holds up a hand to silence Reeve and Aine as Balian responds. “So take him. I’ve got no love for him, he’s running around out there. Take his bitch queen while you’re at it and his pretty brother. Have the whole lot, then get the hells out of my kingdom.”
“That’s a generous offer, Your Grace, but not what King Erathor is asking for. Taking prisoners like that isn’t the Lunar Court way. Instead, he’s requesting a trial by combat. The Fae Hammer shoulders the crimes of himself, his brother, and all of Ostusen, fighting in single combat against a warrior of Erathor’s choosing. Should the Hammer fall, the Lunar Court will return to the Golden Rea
lm as friends once again of Ostusen, considering your slate clean.”
“And if he wins? What then? Right back to war?”
“No, Your Grace. Should the Hammer prevail, King Erathor has decreed that the Lunar Court will accept that as the will of the gods. He has no interest in watching his people die, Your Grace, and he expects you feel the same. This way, justice will be done without any more unnecessary blood spilling.”
Balian is silent for so long that Varis fears the worst, but he doesn’t get the chance to hear if the King ever answers. Reeve grabs him from behind and clamps a hand over his mouth, dragging him backward as Aine and Laix follow. Though Varis struggles, his brother has always had him beat in brute strength, and he eventually gives up just to stop himself from running out of air.
Reeve drags him into the trees far past the tent and shoves him to the ground, pointing a shaky finger at his face. “No. No,” he insists. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I have to,” Varis grunts out. “You heard him. Whether I win or lose, this war ends. Are you really going to tell me that my life is more important than everyone else’s? Than yours and Aine’s and Laix’s? Echo’s? Trystrel’s? The thousands of others out there that’ll die if this doesn’t end?”
“The hell with all of them! You’re my brother, not them. Our family is right here.” Reeve waves a hand at Aine and Laix. “We’re leaving.”
Aine rushes to Varis’ side and drops down into the dirt with tears filling her eyes. “Var... please...”
He reaches out to take her hand and kisses it softly. “All my life, I’ve killed at the whim of a violent king. It's never served a purpose. Now, I've got the chance to make a difference with the only skill I've ever learned.” As Varis gets to his feet, he lifts her up with him and faces his brother. “I wish you could have faith in me, Reeve. I know I haven't earned it, not lately, but... I can do this. I can stop this war, and if I don't at least try, I’ll be condemning all of us to a life on the run. Where would we go? Epriven? The Star Court? Somewhere beyond the edge of the map? Nowhere else will be safe, and even those territories might not be. I need to do this.”