The Broken Realm

by Sarah M. Cradit

“Why does the past matter to you so much?”

  “The past dictates the present. Without the past, Ravenna, all of us, would not be in peril. This Beyond you speak of has no name for me, like it does for the chosen women. But it was there that the Ravenwoods came to life. There that the Rhiagains came to life. And there that the great sorcerers, too, came to life.”

  Asherley had been wearing a mocking grin for most of this exchange, but it faded now. What Argentyn had just told her was the first thing that built upon her knowledge, rather than confusing it. “You all come from the same place?”

  He nodded. “A place where Ravenwood and sorcerer were equals, and Rhiagain... ahh, they were no kings there. It was the Rhiagains who served us, the wielders of magic. They were nothing if we did not say they were.”

  “They do not serve you here,” Asherley countered. “It is the Rhiagains who rule, and the Ravenwoods who cower in the shadows.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But not for much longer. The sorcerers are awakening, and once they do, nothing will ever be the same again.”

  “Why? Because they want to kill you?”

  “They cannot kill us, as they cannot kill a Rhiagain. As we cannot kill them, either.” Argentyn’s head cocked to the side. He closed his eyes. “Varinya calls for me. I must go. She cannot find me here.”

  Asherley snaked her hand out and grabbed his arm. “You can’t leave it like this. We’re not finished.”

  Argentyn wrenched his arm away. “I’ve already given you more than you deserve.” His eyes passed around the room, landed on her once more, and then he spun and left.

  * * *

  Alasyr came to a stop under the silver arches of the Courtyard of Regents. A heavy relief settled over him as he saw he was the only one there. He shouldn’t step another foot forward. It would be blasphemy. The Courtyard of Regents was for the present and dowager High Priests and Priestesses alone, and their husband, should they allow it. He was only an eldest son, which meant nothing at all in the world of the Ravenwoods.

  There was no reason not to turn back. If he wanted to be alone with his thoughts there were many such places in The Rookery, none of which would bring upon him the punishment this place would if discovered. But as he was pulled back the way he came, his eyes landed upon the silvery trees swaying in the east wind, the midnight goats milling about the dewy grass, born of magic alone this high in the mountains.

  Alasyr took one step forward. Now, he’d broken the rule; the punishment, for which, was unknown to him as most Ravenwoods were ardent disciples of law.

  He took another step. His heart soared, leaping into the back of his throat, but he took another. He’d never violated any rules before. Never wanted to. He’d tried to sneak Ravenna food when her parents were starving her to bring her down to her proper size, but he didn’t quite think that was the same. It was not the type of thing considered in the spirit of the laws crafted, which were designed for uniformity and conformity, in a world that would collapse without either.

  Alasyr moved inward toward the center of the great circle. He’d been here as a very small boy, with his mother, before he could walk far. Once he was capable of crossing the circle on his own without tottering over, his mother stopped bringing him.

  Icy rain peppered the ground around him. He stepped under one of the silvery oaks, watching from safety. There was nowhere else in the Rookery more exposed, but the tall wooden chairs where the women sat were out in the open of the circle. There was a lesson here, he thought.

  Several goats pressed past him, moving swiftly to join other goats who were circling something at the edge of the circle. Alasyr followed with curiosity, and as he stepped closer to where the goats all settled, restless, he saw one of them lying on its side, in a pool of blood.

  Alasyr gasped. He couldn’t help it. The vibrant crimson was a shocking mark against this carefully curated world of silver and white. What had caused this?

  He’d so loved the midnight goats as a boy. He pouted when he was no longer able to go to the courtyard to see them, but his mother couldn’t be swayed. The courtyard isn’t for you, Alasyr. Not yet. One day, if you join your sister, or even her daughter, you’ll see them again, should their kindness allow it.

  But these goats will be dead, Mother. They will be new goats.

  The midnight goats are immortal, darling. These same goats you so love now will await you when your time again comes.

  The caw of mountain vultures sounded above. They swirled to and fro, awaiting their moment.

  A terrible sadness gripped Alasyr suddenly. The dying goat blinked, regarding him through bleary eyes as its life waned away. The other midnight goats bleated, rolling their silver fur toward the sky to sing their song of grief.

  He looked behind him, toward the arches, once more. No one but Alasyr, and the melancholy goats preparing for their funereal moment.

  Tears rolled down his cheeks and dropped to the icy marble beneath him. Rain joined them, blending his sorrow with nature. As the frozen rain picked up in intensity, some of the dying goat’s blood began to wash away, inward, where it would seep into the ground and provide sustenance for incoming life, a gift from the outgoing.

  None of it felt right. Not the dying goat, or those mourning him before he was gone. Not this courtyard, this castle, this world, this life.

  The last of the life drained away from the goat. The air around him filled with the grieving cries of those who were left.

  Alasyr wrenched his mouth wide and released a silent scream that rolled from the depths of his belly. As it pulsed forward, away from him, he fell to his knees at the side of the goat and hovered his trembling hands just above the mangled fur.

  “This should not be how it ends for you, immortal friend,” Alasyr sobbed. A great white light traveled from his hands, one he’d never seen before. He nearly fell back at the shock of seeing it, but just as swiftly was overcome with the realization that though this was new, it was not to be feared. Alasyr trembled with this new power, smiling through his tears now, and with delight he watched as the wound at the goat’s side began to close. The goat’s blank eyes again surged with life, white turning to a brilliant blue, as if a cloud passing away to reveal the sun. A knowing bleat passed among the other goats, and he felt small mouths nestle into him from behind, the sides, as they all gathered around him in gratitude for what he had done.

  And what had he done?

  He had raised the dead to life. A magic that was believed to be no longer.

  Alasyr fell back on his palms, breathless.

  28

  A Declaration of War

  The howl that came from young Storm Wakesell when she learned of her father’s murder was the worst sound Jesse had ever heard.

  The news arrived courtesy of a man named Stirling Oakenwell, one of Quinlanden’s top men and the steward of Oak Hill. Lord Warwick had a sword at the man’s throat before he could even cross the town boundary, but Brandyn was just as quick, stepping alongside the flash of steel between the men to remind them who was at the helm.

  An eye for an eye, young Lord Blackwood. This man is complicit in your father’s murder!

  He wouldn’t be here, alone, if that were so.

  Jesse thought if Brandyn were anyone but Byrne’s only son, Khallum would have taken over by now, perhaps had the boy under strict counsel until he was older. But those who had known Byrne would see him in his son’s eyes. He was more Warwick than Blackwood, at least to look upon him. Jesse hadn’t met the boy’s mother, but from all he’d heard, she was the one quick to temper, and probably better matched to Khallum than Byrne.

  From Oakenwell they learned that Quinlanden had sent word to both Oakenwell and Waters to stand down in their sacking of the Westerlands. Neither man believed the words had come from Quinlanden, but if they had not come from him, then they’d come from the king himself, which was baffling and curious all at once. While Oakenwell rode from town to town to carry out the orders, Mads defied them, crafting hi
s own instead, ramping up the attacks on Westerland villages and towns in frequency and cruelty.

  Starting with Whitewood.

  “Mads’ men have razed it, killing any man whether fighting or fleeing. Burning homes, with women and children inside,” Oakenwell said. His cheeks were flushed with the burden of the hard ride he’d taken to reach them, and the horrors he’d left behind in Whitewood. “He chose to start there because—”

  “The Seven Sisters isolates them from the rest of the Reach, preventing quick aid,” Brandyn finished for him. He closed his eyes.

  “And my father?” Storm raced forward, grabbing the man by the arm. “My mother?”

  “You’re the Wakesell girl?”

  “Steward Wakesell is my father. Tell me!”

  Oakenwell dropped his eyes. He couldn’t make himself look at her. “Your father was murdered. Your mother... I cannot say. If the Guardians possess mercy, she made it away, with the few others who fled.”

  Storm dropped to her knees and sounded a keening cry into the dim tavern walls. Brandyn went to her side and held her close to him as he looked over her shoulder at the men who watched him, hovered in quiet desperation as they awaited their lord’s response to these atrocities.

  “Steward Oakenwell, we thank you for this news, however hard it was to hear. We appreciate the risk you have taken in coming to us. That there has been a split amongst Quinlanden’s men works in our favor. We can use this to our advantage.”

  “This is a declaration of war!” Khallum boomed. His energy had escalated now to a place where it consumed everyone around it. As he moved about the room, those left in his whirling wake were stirred to his same passion, rallying around it. “I donnae care if the words are from the bootlicker or the ratsbane, or who defied them and who followed them! Do any of you?”

  Storm jumped to her feet. As she wiped the last of her tears away, she seemed to shrug off the weight of her grief with it, like a second skin, becoming again a warrior. “I don’t! Politics did not kill my father, and they will not save other fathers!”

  “It’s time, Lord Blackwood,” Easlan said. He was less animated than the other men now, and the seriousness in his eyes seemed to give Brandyn pause. “We’ve waited long enough for the moment to arrive. It is here.”

  “Here? Aye, we’ve missed the moment and now we’re chasing it!” Rutland boomed.

  Brandyn nodded. Jesse could feel the boy’s conflict from across the tavern. He knew what he needed to do, but feared he would not know how.

  Even Jesse understood the need for the Westerlands to go to war now, but he would not be joining them.

  Brandyn looked upon the small group of men gathered, not a boy, but a man. His voice shook, but he did not. “The Westerlands will no longer abide the Quinlanden treason on our lands. We will answer it, swift and decisive. We will spare none, for they have not and would not spare us. And when we are finished with them, if there are any left, they will look upon the last day of this war as the day their world ended.”

  Though there were few men gathered, the cheers were deafening. This was what they’d wanted to hear from him all along. He would be judged later, when his story was read in The Book of All Things, for waiting until another great man of his realm had been executed, but these men would follow him to whatever end, no matter what.

  “Will you join us, Steward Oakenwell? Will you be able to leave behind your service of the Easterlands? To be branded a betrayer?”

  Oakenwell knelt before Brandyn. He held his sword aloft. “I have served my Reach since I was a boy, and my fathers before me have served, with unyielding fealty, a Reach that does not belong to one man, but all men. I betray no one. To do nothing is the betrayal. To allow Quinlanden to do what he has done harms all in the land he claims to love. So yes, Lord Blackwood, I will join you so that order can be restored to both the Westerlands and the Easterlands, where so many watch and wait for the same end as you.”

  Brandyn nodded. “I think we understand one another. We will harm no one that does not stand against us. You have my word.”

  “Those who donnae stand with you are against you, Lord Blackwood,” Khallum countered.

  “I won’t harm those who cower in their homes, fearing the wrath of both Reaches. None of them asked for this,” Brandyn replied. “Uncle, have we still your men?”

  “Aye, you’ve had my men. They thirst for direction. What shall I give them?”

  “Send half to Longwood Rush, to force the red and gold from our city. If Longwood prevails, the Reach will not fall.”

  “And the rest?”

  “They will meet us in Whitechurch, where this war will be ended.”

  “Us?” Khallum turned to his men, then back to Brandyn, but his nephew had already moved on.

  “Blackfen, I have need of your riding skills. I need you to guide the men who have come to us here in Greystone from across the Reach. Prepare them for swift and hard rides home.”

  Blackfen nodded. “The Rush Riders, too, are ready for aim, my lord.”

  “When they reach their homes, they will do so carrying an important message. The men of the Westerlands must know it is time to rise, to whatever end, and that they have their lord and lords of other Reaches ready to rise with them. It will be upon them to defend the Westerlands while we keep more war from their doorsteps. Send these men as swiftly as you can to cover as many towns and villages as possible. Assure them that the flags of Longwood Rush will fly again once more, and that they are to stand proud for the Westerlands, for the kingdom stands with them. Tell no one where the rest of us are going. Our enemies will know soon enough, but we need to prolong that knowing for as long as we can. If we lose our surprise, the enslaved Medvedev will outnumber us, and we’ll be walking into certain death. It will be a rout.” Brandyn paused. “I would like for you to deliver a message to Wulfsgate personally. To Lord and Lady Dereham.”

  “What shall I tell them, Lord Blackwood?”

  “Tell them the Southerlands has joined us in retaking our land, and we call for their aid. Before you leave, we will have our strategy decided, which you will take to them. They will require it in exchange for their men. It’s what they’ve required from us all along.” Brandyn lowered his voice. “And though she will fight it, I ask you to order my sister to remain in Wulfsgate, where she is safe. For if...” Brandyn didn’t finish.

  “I understand. I expect she will fight your order.”

  “Yes. But in the end, she’ll comply. She gave up everything when my mother asked her to. This is not so hard in comparison.”

  Blackfen nodded.

  “Lord Warwick, will you join me at the war board for strategy? For the rest of you,” Brandyn went on, solemn in word and expression, “eat and drink well this afternoon, for tonight we ride.”

  * * *

  Jesse had just mounted his horse when Brandyn stopped him. Darrick was with him.

  “Your Grace. Lord Blackwood.” Jesse turned his horse to face them. He looked at the prince. “I didnae see you in the room when Lord Blackwood stirred the men to war.”

  Darrick shook his head. “I needed a moment alone with my thoughts.”

  “Aye. I see. Well, I willnae be joining you men on your ride to war. If you’re still engaged in this when I’ve done what I need to do, I’ll come back and give what aid I can.”

  “I’ve appreciated your counsel,” Brandyn said. “You’re not like the other men in there.”

  Jesse laughed. “I’m nay sure you mean that as a compliment.”

  “I do,” Brandyn insisted. “They are either lusted for blood, or incapable of seeing the full view of what awaits us. And as I lack the experience needed to address either argument, your perspective has been an aid to me.”

  “I cannae claim to see the future either, Lord Blackwood, but that is why I have advised caution. Your most beloved resources are your land and those who live upon it, and war protects neither. Yet I would ride with you, at your side, if I didnae have my own resp
onsibility to tend to.”

  “I understand. My cousin is fortunate to have you.”

  “Your cousin?” Darrick repeated.

  Jesse turned to look at him. “When you came to me about Ryan. What you said about Esmerelda. You know, then, that she...”

  Darrick answered with a solemn nod. “He told me your plan to take her to your mother’s people. It’s not my business how you ended up here after.”

  “We were not welcomed in the Hinterlands as we’d hoped. I suspect they are vigilant against outsiders because of Quinlanden’s treachery. So we came here.”

  Darrick looked past him, toward the woods that led to the keep. “She’s here, then?”

  “Easlan offered us use of his keep. I thought she could be safe here, but there isnae safety in hiding, no matter the stones above and around you, is there? Then the men began arriving, and... it doesnae matter. There is no safety in hiding. Esmerelda realized this before I did. If I can get her to his side, he’ll wake. I know it.”

  “I feel the same,” Darrick said. “The memory of her kept him going, day after day. She kept him alive, against the crushing defeat the Wastelands settles over all men who are sent there. You’ll tell her, won’t you?”

  “Aye, I will.” Jesse reached forward. He laid a hand, briefly, on the prince’s forearm. “Ryan knew what awaited him here. But he also knew what awaited him in there. He was proud to serve his lord, and you.”

  Darrick met his eyes. “Ryan Strong is the truest friend I have ever known. And now, I am honored to call his brother friend as well.”

  * * *

  After Jesse had ridden away, Brandyn looked at Darrick. “I saw myself.”

  “Another vision?”

  “I was face to face with the sorcerer. Though I’ve... I don’t know him, I knew it was him. I knew it, same as I know you and I are here, having this talk.”

  “What else did you see?”

  Brandyn dropped his eyes. “Nothing. But I know that’s where I’m to end up when we arrive in Whitechurch.”