The Broken Realm

by Sarah M. Cradit

  “Pity,” he answered. “This may prove painful for her, then.”

  * * *

  Corridyn Ravenwood was dying. Alasyr hadn’t been well acquainted with the old man. He’d been old when Alasyr was born. Unlike the series of deaths a female Ravenwood experienced, it was a true death, their only death. As they lay upon the ceremonial bed, their last, they were given their own Final Death rites.

  Alasyr struggled to understand his exact relation to Corridyn. He thought the old man was an ancestor of his grandmother Adynora’s uncle, four or five generations back, which would make him quite old, though some lived longer than that. There were Ravenwoods still walking the halls of the Rookery with over two centuries behind them.

  It was the men who attended the bedside of the dying man. It was not required. Alasyr hadn’t planned to visit Corridyn’s bedside at all, until he heard others whisper that he’d had no visitors, and would die alone. This sparked a pang of sadness in Alasyr, not only for the old man, but for all of them. Could it truly be that a Ravenwood could live so long and still die alone?

  Alasyr made his way to the chambers that were set aside for this tradition. The Perch of the Final Death it was called, though there was nothing inside resembling a perch or a cage. Only a small bed in the center of the alabaster room, surrounded by candles.

  He found Corridyn was, indeed, alone, and as he entered, Alasyr began to doubt his choice to come. If he didn’t know the old man, the old man would not know him. Would it only emphasize that his loved ones had failed to see him?

  “Alasyr,” a gravelly voice said from the bed. “Son of Varinya. How unexpected. How lovely.”

  Alasyr swallowed the lump in his throat and slowly approached the bed. As he came close, he saw something that only happened to Ravenwoods as their Final Death loomed near. The smoothness in the man’s face was a sea of wrinkles. His pale cheeks were dotted with dark spots. Some said it was magic leaving a Ravenwood; that it was magic who produced their beauty and held it fast for so many years.

  “You know me?” Alasyr asked. There was no chair, so he knelt.

  “In the same way you know me, I suppose.” The man’s words took twice as long as they should to finish. He drew out every letter, as if each pained him. “How kind of you to come, when no one else would.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “There is nothing I need now.”

  “All right.” Alasyr sat back on his heels, lost for how to continue the conversation.

  “Would you like to know why no one else has visited me?”

  “If you... if you would like to tell me.”

  “It is my inclination to tell which has left me alone in my final hours,” Corridyn said with a sly smile. “I sometimes wonder if the magic didn’t leave me earlier, for this. But it has not left me entirely, has it?”

  Alasyr watched the old man in silence.

  “I have made many mistakes, Alasyr. But none more terrible than upholding the falsehood that provides the foundation for our world.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you not detected it yourself? No, you are very young yet. You have years ahead of you, still, in careful, joyous ignorance before you, too, begin to question.”

  “I know not everything is as they would want us to believe,” Alasyr said, and almost immediately regretted the words. Dying or no, a confession of this type bordered on treason. The wrong ears would make it so.

  “You know that, do you? Good.” Corridyn closed his eyes, nodding. “You knew it way before I did, then.”

  “I don’t know anything,” Alasyr replied and was overcome by a short swell of anger as he said the words. “I only see that there are truths being kept from me.”

  “From most,” Corridyn said. “For there can be no order in chaos.”

  “It wouldn’t need to be chaos.”

  “It would. Without the lie, chaos is all that is left.”

  “What lie?”

  Corridyn rolled his head to the side. Now, Alasyr could see how deep the man’s eyes had receded into his sockets; how his skin hung, no longer fully attached to bone. “It is all a lie. The passing of memories. The chosen one. There are no memories. There is no one of us better than another, not due to the order of their birth anyway.”

  Alasyr scoffed. “But my mother has had her memories. My grandmother. And they are both very powerful women.”

  “All Ravenwoods are powerful,” Corridyn answered.

  “They wouldn’t lie.”

  “They would, to protect themselves, and their daughters. They would, for fear of being cast against the mountain for the failure of it.”

  Alasyr softly gasped as the man’s words settled into him, into every bone, every drop of blood coursing through him. “But... the Langenacht. It always reveals the chosen High Priest. Always.”

  “The reigning High Priestess chooses who her daughter will marry. It is she who blesses her daughter’s womb, and the seed of the man who she believes will best honor her. She does this without knowing the women before her have done the same, in love, of protection of their daughters. In fear that her daughter’s womb will not quicken, and she will be cast out, as is the way.” The old man’s words took longer the more he spoke. “Ahh, but you are still young. You are possessed of doubt, but have not yet been driven by it.” His bony hands reached for Alasyr’s. Alasyr gave them over. “You are a kind boy, to visit a dying man. Pay no mind to me. I feel the last of our ancestors leave me, and I would sleep now.”

  Alasyr nodded. Hot tears burned at his eyes, and he didn’t know why they were there, or what they wanted of him. He didn’t know how to make sense of the words, or whether he should. The man was, after all, dying, and it was known one on the edge of life and death was prone to nonsense.

  Still, it left a sourness in his belly as he left the chambers, making his way to his own room. He thought of his father’s secret jaunts. His mother’s hushed words. Ravenna, lost in the world. The midnight goat. The dying man that Alasyr could return to life, with his hands, he now knew, but feared what would happen if he did.

  The old man was right. There was chaos.

  It had taken domicile in Alasyr, and he feared there was no way to be rid of it.

  * * *

  “Your Grace, it may be time to deploy the Knights of Duncarrow.”

  Eoghan turned his face away from the sorcerer. There was never a moment he did not feel he was under the intense scrutiny of Oldwin, the result of which he knew he’d experience in ways too soon to predict. “You told me the ravens would be enough to quell tensions.”

  “It was, until Mads Waters decided not to heed his own lord’s advice.”

  “Are we to believe Waters is acting against Aiden’s wishes or that he has seen through the words as belonging to someone not his lord?”

  “One simply cannot say for certain.”

  “No,” Eoghan said in disgust. “This is the work of one man, not many. We will deal with it as such.”

  Oldwin stepped forward. His dark, wide eyes were all Eoghan could see when he looked up. There was death beyond the blackness. He thought this every time he looked upon the sorcerer. “One man has defied the order, but he has prompted many men to action. It cannot be allowed to continue.”

  “I did not release you from the sky dungeon to advise me in matters of war, but to scry the future. Yet you’ve given me no divinations. No visions. Instead, you tell me I should go to war, when I have told you that will not be my legacy!”

  Oldwin kept his cool in spite of Eoghan’s rattled constitution. “And if I told you I’d seen war?”

  “If you told me that now I’d have your head for not telling me sooner.”

  Oldwin grinned. “Then it is just as well that I’ve seen nothing.”

  “For you,” Eoghan grunted. “Not for me. What good is a seer who sees nothing?”

  “I have seen something,” Oldwin answered with a slow drawl. “Something you will appreciate. But can we first,
Your Grace, put the matter of Mads Waters to bed? He’s imprisoned Lord Corin and Lady Yesenia. He’s already sacked Whitewood, and by the time we receive another raven, there will be more left in his wake. What orders shall I give?”

  “Mortain was a gift from the Rhiagains. He answers to us, does he not?”

  Oldwin hesitated. Nodded.

  “Order him to deal with the matter of Waters. Swiftly, before more damage is done. He will then spread the word that Waters acted alone, against the wishes of his king and lord, and will put an end to the chaos spreading across the Westerlands. All men who wish to be spared will lay down their arms and do as commanded.”

  Oldwin bowed. “Your Grace.”

  “Also, send for Maeryn Blackwood.”

  “Lady Blackwood? You mean for her to come here?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  “You do not question me, Oldwin. I have my reasons.”

  “Lady Assana,” Oldwin muttered, and Eoghan knew the sorcerer meant for him to hear it. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.

  “I’m weary. Tell me your vision and go.”

  “Ahh, yes. You will soon be less troubled about lacking an heir, Your Grace.”

  “Have you seen Assana with child?”

  “Not Assana,” Oldwin said. “Your next wife.”

  31

  A Call to Arms

  Hamish read the words on the vellum three times. The raven had been whipped about in the strong wind coming off Leecaster Bay, making it just in time to stand before him and die, having completed its final task. Hamish had no especial soft place for ravens, but he very much wished that he could have healed the poor little beast that had given his life to deliver this message.

  If nothing else, it seemed like a terrible omen. He’d never before seen a messenger raven drop dead on delivery.

  It was time. Khallum had said it would come, and yet Hamish hadn’t spent near enough time preparing himself for this moment. He’d done more talking than he had in all his life these past days and weeks. Sharing with Ryan the stories of Yanna, of how he’d discovered her, and then, his love for her, which had been less of a discovery and more a powerful thrust of the Guardians. I loved her before I knew her name, he’d said, smiling at the memory. Yanna de Medvedev. His tragic beauty with the swollen belly and a fear unlike he’d seen in any man or woman before. It was just as well she refused to give name to the ratsbane who’d done it to her, for Hamish could not have rescued her if he was in the crown prison camp.

  When Jesse had come whispering into the world, Hamish forgot he wasn’t the boy’s father. He forgot this truth at most points in Jesse’s life, seeing it only in the glimpses of how Jesse was so different than most Strong men. In the eyes, mostly, was where he saw it. His cooler, easier behaviors could be explained away to the differing natures in all men, but behind Jesse’s dark eyes, the truth lived. Hamish wasn’t afraid of the truth; only that Jesse might discover it, and that it might cause him to question his place.

  But Ryan... when Ryan had come, Hamish had nothing to forget. Ryan looked like his older brother, but he also looked very much like his father; he had Hamish’s sandy blond hair and pale blue eyes. He was a Strong, through and through, though had thankfully inherited his mother’s more delicate looks as well, for where a woman would grudgingly marry Hamish Strong for his title and money, one would eagerly marry Ryan Strong for his nature and beauty.

  One tried. And she’d paid the price, as had Ryan.

  “I’m ’fraid it’s time, Son,” Hamish said to his sleeping son. He closed Ryan’s hands into his swollen fist. “What I’d give to be ’ere when you wake.”

  Hamish looked again at the words. I lead the men here to deal with the matter where it began. It is time for you and Garrick to lead the men of the west half of our Reach to Whitechurch. We must draw Quinlanden’s men away from the Westerlands and take the war to his own land.

  Hamish bowed his head and sighed. “Ye deserve the chance to fight, too. A fierce warrior, ye’d be. I know it.”

  “Sir?” Missy’s small voice appeared in the doorway. “I’ve come to change his linens. I can come back.”

  “Nay,” Hamish replied, wiping his hands over his eyes. He didn’t lean down to embrace or kiss his son. That would imply a goodbye, and he would see him again. The Guardians had not allowed him to linger this long to take him later. “I must take leave, lass. I donnae know when I’ll return. I can trust ye? To look after him?”

  Missy affected a light bow. “Stewardess Rutland wouldnae have me behave any other way, sir.”

  Hamish moved toward her, leaning in. Her eyes widened at his closeness. “If he dies, I’ll scorch this kingdom till there’s nay a blade of grass to remind us of what it was.”

  Missy swallowed her fear of him and met his eyes with the same intensity. “Then I know my task.”

  * * *

  Gwyn’s tears blurred her view of the vellum curling into the flames and disappearing. That Khallum had bothered to send her a raven at all made everything worse, somehow. He never told her anything when he was away. He’d never seen the need in it, no matter how she’d begged for news of his exploits. He couldn’t know what it was like to be the one left behind; the one to assuage the fears of the children, when her own fears ran relentless.

  “Mother?” Niall’s hands gripped the back of the chair. “What’s wrong?”

  Little Garrick appeared in the doorway. “Has something happened?”

  She turned and looked at them both, one by one. Gwyn saw no point in hiding her tears from them anymore. Niall was now their heir, if Ransom didn’t return. At fifteen, he was ready for betrothal and she’d already been in talks with Stewardess Nye about one of her daughters. And though she still thought of her youngest as Little Garrick, he was twelve now and closer to being a husband than a bairn. When their father was that age, he was already training for a war his own father promised but never delivered.

  Khallum had sent for them both in Oldcastle, brought them home to her. If Oldcastle wasn’t safe anymore…

  “Your father is calling the Southerlands to war, my sons.”

  “Why? Where?” Niall asked.

  “To the Westerlands, where the most terrible treacheries have happened and must be put to bed before they spread to the other Reaches and bring a darkness that will not be so easy to slide off. To the Easterlands, where it began.”

  “Is that where he’s been all this time?” Garrick asked, frowning. “I thought you said he had business in Blackpool.”

  Gwyn shook her head. Her red hair fell from its plaits and she didn’t bother repinning it. “I cannot say if he’s been in Blackpool, or elsewhere. I cannot even tell you where he is now, or where he’s going.”

  Niall came before her and knelt at her knees. “I donnae understand. Father has always had enmity for the other Reaches. They’ve never come when we called. Why does he go when they do?”

  “Your father sees what others cannot. That a war against one Reach is a war against us all.”

  “Then I should be with him! At his side! Why else would he call me home from study if not for that?” Niall cried. “Other men of my age will be called, so why not his own son? Why should I be given special treatment?”

  Gwyn gathered his hands in one of hers and opened her arms for Garrick to join them. “How I wish I had answers for you boys. I only know that he keeps these things from us out of love, nothing more or less. Esmerelda is lost to us. If Ransom returns to us, he will not be the same young man who left us. The two of you are the hope and pride of the Warwicks now, and if that is what guides him to stay your own hands from involvement, then I cannot say I would do any different, were I him.”

  Garrick laid his head against her leg. “Father says we should fear nothing.”

  Gwyn ran her hands through his hair. “But you are afraid, aren’t you?”

  He nodded.

  She kissed the tops of both her son’s heads. “Aye,
your mother is afraid, too. But you know who should be more afraid? Whoever finds themselves on the wrong end of your father’s ire. For that person, fear will be the last thing they know.”

  * * *

  Aylen waited until the other men were marching toward the Gates of the North before slipping away to the armory to piece together a set for herself. Her sword, Witchwind, was always with her, even in the infirmary. Even removed, it was never far from her hand. This her father had taught her. But she’d left for the Sepulchre before she could be fitted for armor with her siblings. She’d never even watched a man put it on, so she wasn’t sure if she’d know the right order, the way it should fit. She didn’t know if the blacksmith would have made anything for someone her size, but she supposed a children’s cut would work.

  The armory had been picked clean. Weapons, mail, plate, all of which had been crafted in the weeks leading up to use. Christian told her that before recent events had forced the blacksmiths back into perpetual work, some of the swords in the armory of Wulfsgate had been rusted. All who had needed a sword carried one already, or had their ancestral steel mounted somewhere as a display of pride. None had seen use.

  But she was in luck, for though some men had taken their sons, few children had been conscripted to respond to the call to arms from the Westerlands. She saw this collection piled in a corner, and, with a glance back at the door, knelt to sift through and find what she could for herself.

  You know I never ask anything of you, Christian had said as he headed to the armory himself, hardly a tick of the sun past. But I beg of you now, stay with my mother. Bar the gates of the keep if you must. I cannot lose you, Aylen.

  There are other women going to fight. Women with half my skill at the sword. Do you not think all strong hands are needed?

  He’d turned to her with a great sadness in his eyes. Aye. I think that. But I’m going to be selfish now, so that my reason for life still has hers when I return.