by N M Zoltack
Sabine hesitated once she entered the keep. Her hand went to her stomach. She was not hungry, not in the least, but her dresses hung loosely on her. Perhaps she should at least attempt to consume a few morsels.
On her way to the kitchen, however, footsteps approached, and she halted as Rosalynne’s guards marched up to her. Thorley Everett, Wilfrid Frye, and Tiberius Davis all surrounded her.
“You are to come with us,” Thorley said, a bit apologetically. Rosalynne had used him to spy on Sabine, but Sabine long suspect him of this and that he cared nothing for her. There was a bit of kindness in his blue eyes this very moment, though. Did that mean Sabine should fear where they would bring her and why?
“Lead the way,” she murmured demurely.
Tiberius's face was a bit red, which helped to hide the pox marks on his face as he marched beside her. The trio was silent as they escorted her to one of the council meeting rooms.
Surprisingly, the room was empty, save for Rosalynne.
“You may leave,” Rosalynne said, rising from her seat at the head of the table.
The guards all bowed and obeyed her command.
Sabine did not turn to watch them go nor moved from her location by the door even once she heard it click shut behind her.
Rosalynne tossed a scroll onto the table. "Are the contents true?" she demanded, her tone ice cold, the perfect antithesis of the flames' heat earlier.
Sabine hung her head. She did not have to look at the letter to know what it contained.
“I… I intended to poison the king only slightly over time,” Sabine confessed. “I misjudged how potent the poison was, how quickly it would cause… I did not… That is to say my mother had no hand in this. It was my own doing. She… She may have mentioned the idea, but… I… The king never saw me. He did not love me, and I knew that when we wed, but I thought… He was not good for the kingdom. He was not a strong king, not anymore. He wasn’t what Tenoch needed, not if Tenoch was to prosper, not if it were to remain Tenoch Proper.”
Sabine swallowed hard and lifted her chin. Why was she acting the part of a martyr? She had killed the king. Quicker than she intended, yes, but if given a chance to relive her life, she would have done it again.
“Jankin died the night I gave him the first dose, but it is possible it had been merely a coincidence. It is quite fathomable that he died from the choking or his own overindulgence. So much food over so many years… The man could not even walk. He was a gluttonous monster. Yes, my action might well have killed him, but he would not have lived long regardless. You and I both know that.”
Rosalynne’s face whitened, and she slowly sank down into her seat, her gaze darting from side to side as she visibly processed what Sabine had said.
The knowledge that Sabine had poisoned the king was clearly news to Rosalynne.
Clearly, the letter had not been about that.
What other secret could have been revealed instead?
38
Princess Vivian Rivera
The horse’s hooves pounded against the gravel and the grass with ease. Vivian was not following along a path. While she did not think any merchants and their wagons would be along the path, there might be refugees fleeing Atlan or perhaps those seeking the safety they hoped the castle walls could afford.
Instead of heading west immediately, Vivian had opted for a slight detour to the village that had been burned. She could not say why she sought to return to the forsaken place, but she felt called to nonetheless.
When she was about an hour away from the place, she spied a robed form slinking toward her. A wraith. Gooseflesh pebbled her arms beneath the long sleeves of her tunic, but she only let out a gasp when she spied what it was that the wraith was holding.
Barely clinging to its skeletal hand was a cloth doll.
The girl she had witnessed die in front of her.
Vivian’s heart broke, torn nearly in two. The pain she felt was second only to her grief at learning her brother had been killed. With a strangled cry, Vivian forced her horse to turn aside and head to the west, toward the mountains.
She must not delay any longer. Her quest was far too important, far more crucial now than she had realized.
With a click of her tongue and a flick of her reins, she urged her horse to increase his already swift pace. They must ride and ride hard for Olac.
She could not reach the city quickly enough.
39
Bjorn Ivano
A hand on Bjorn’s shoulder had him reaching for the blade tucked in an armband around his bicep.
A faint chuckle had him only increasing his grip on the handle before loosening it.
“You were so restless in your sleep I thought you were going to wake the dead,” Olympia said.
With a groan, he sat up. His head pained him terribly, as terribly as it would after a night of heavy drinking, and he hadn't a drink of ale in so long he had almost forgotten the taste. It hardly seemed fair for him to be pained like this when he had not even imbibed any to deserve it.
“The dead will not rise up,” he grumbled.
“Did you forget what I told you of the dragons and their wraiths?” The Li princess shook her head.
“I thought the wraiths were living people who devoted their lives to the dragons to help prevent others from ending up like them, so they would have a chance to not end up in the belly of the dragon or else earn a face full of flames.”
Olympia merely shrugged, and he realized he could see her small nose, her high cheekbones, and her dark eyes clearly.
She had not woken him for his turn at watch. Dawn was already breaking.
Olympia lowered her head, and his fingers itched to brush back the curtain of straight, long hair that concealed her profile from him, but then she turned to critically appraise him.
He ran a hand through his short dark-brown hair. Her gaze penetrated him, and he found himself fearing she found him lacking.
“You could go,” she said abruptly.
“Go?”
“Return to Maloyan.”
“Why would I do that?”
Olympia blinked solemnly. Her eyes were as dark as the darkest nights, pits that could threaten to ruin him, to ruin all of Tenoch.
“You brought me to Atlan,” she reminded him.
“Yes, but…”
“A dragon could right this very second be burning Maloyan to the ground,” she pointed out.
“And what good could I do them if that were the case?” he countered.
“Do not,” she warned.
“Do not what?” he asked curiously, but she merely shook her head and stared off into the distance.
The two had found a small cave farther toward the coast, near where River Zim emptied into the Vast Waters. The Battle of the Rivers had occurred so long ago, yet the two of them had not ventured any closer to the castle. All they had done was come here, eat, keep watch, and sleep.
They had no plan, but then, they never had much of a plan other than to come here.
“Your sleep is so very restless each night,” Olympia said after a short pause.
He watched the waves for a long moment. They crashed against the white sandy beach and then rolled away, a constant struggle toward the land and then away.
Just as they struggled toward the castle.
“Do you have nightmares?” she asked.
“No,” he said perhaps too quickly.
Her perfectly arched eyebrows lifted. “If you have dreams of wearing a crown beside me—”
Bjorn burst out laughing. “No.”
“No? You would have married the Rivera queen if you could have,” Olympia said suspiciously. “Why not me?”
“Are you jealous?”
“Of course not,” Olympia flashed, her eyes somehow darkening from their already black hue. “Or is it that you doubt I will ever sit on the throne?”
“The throne is poison,” he muttered.
“It had not been during the—”
&
nbsp; “Yes, the Lis ruled a long time, and then they were murdered. What if you survived the purge only to die nineteen years later?”
“I’m twenty,” she murmured.
“You are? Since when?” he asked, shocked.
“My day of birth was the day of the Battle of the Rivers.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
“Oh, I know not. Maybe because we feared the dragons would burn us alive?”
“Burn us dead more like,” he muttered. “I could have gotten you something.”
“I need nothing.”
“Except the crown.”
She said nothing.
He grimaced. She did not trust him, and maybe that was the smartest course of action she could take, but he did think of her as a friend. Maybe even more than a friend. On a few occasions, he dreamed of dancing with her, of holding her in his arms, of kissing her, but not lately. His dreams of late were terrible nightmares that affected him long after his eyes opened. He’d been trying to convince Olympia to sleep longer and had taken to watching more than not, but evidently, his body had betrayed him last night and her, too, for allowing him to sleep so long.
“You’re biding your time,” he accused suddenly. “You’re hoping the dragons will side with the Lis and burn down your enemies so you can waltz into Atlan Castle and reclaim the throne. Aren’t you?”
Olympia turned to him, her emotionless mask crumbling a few moments later as she beamed at him.
“Did you have any part in the dragons returning?” he demanded.
“You think I can control the dragons?”
“No, no one can, but the dragons had been dead for a millennium and a half. They could not have returned without assistance. Could it be that someone else has the dragons under their claws?”
Olympia scowled. “You mean to suggest there is yet another pretender seeking my throne?”
“I do not know,” he said honestly.
“What do you know?”
“That I’m not returning to Maloyan.”
“Not now or not ever?”
Bjorn shrugged. “I suppose that depends on you, Princess. You get yourself back a crown and the throne, I can return to Atlan Castle and not be executed on sight.”
“I would not have executions at all,” Olympia declared.
“No? Not even the queens?”
“No. They would be subjected to my every whim.”
“Slaves?”
"Prisoners, albeit not in prison. They would help the community and do as I bid them so that they could atone for their actions, for their thievery. They—their ancestors—stole the Lis' time and lives. They will pay by ensuring the lives of those around them is made better through their actions."
“You are kinder than I.”
“Perhaps, but if they were to fight me…” Olympia reached over and removed the dagger from his armband. She placed a finger on the tip of the blade. “I will fight back, and I will be the one to draw blood. If they push me, I will kill.”
“But you prefer for the dragons to do so.”
“Indeed.”
Bjorn fell silent. If the dragons were to go after every person in Dragoona who had wronged another, only babes would live.
Of the three female rulers, which one would find favor with the dragons? If Bjorn had to guess, he highly suspected Olympia, and a wild thought came to him. He almost wished to get down on one knee and swear fealty to her.
But she would mock him for it, wouldn’t she? No, she would ask him to wait until she was crowned.
So he would wait, but he hoped the moment would come when he was on one knee before her.
If she would have him.
40
Prince Marcellus Gallus
The Prince of Vincana was ready to rip out every last hair from his scalp. They had moved everyone—their wounded, the burned, and the hardy, save for their dead which they had burned, opting not to risk sending them back to Vincana via a ship and also not to bury them on foreign soil—to a land cave that was deep enough to house them all, albeit the quarters were rather tight.
He would pace if there were room. Instead, he stared out into the distance, eyeing the clouds that blocked out the sky. Were there dragons lurking behind the fluffy white clouds? And down below, the green land seemed peaceful, for now. There was not much game nearby, however, and his people were hungry. They were rationing their food, but they would need to do something drastic and soon. Merely hunting and gathering was not enough. Like it or not, Marcellus had been considering occupying a small village. While he did not want to deprive any of what he hoped would be his future citizens of their own food, perhaps they could serve to help the town in some fashion to earn their bread.
How? Protect them from the dragons? They could not promise that.
Without glancing over his shoulder, he knew Flavius was approaching.
“You are twenty today,” the commander remarked.
Marcellus grunted.
“I would not wish to speak ill on the occasion of the anniversary of your mother giving birth to you…”
“However?” Marcellus prompted.
Flavius crossed his arms. He had shed a good deal of his armor and almost appeared relaxed. “The troop that ran off on their own… I feel responsible for them.”
Marcellus flared his nostrils and ran a hand through his hair. “Walk with me,” he ordered without meaning to use a forceful tone.
Without comment, Flavius fell into step beside him.
The prince did not wish for the others to overhear their conversation, and he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, not that he thought they would come across any small game.
“The troop fled the Battle of the Rivers and sought to seek valor on their own by attacking Atlan Castle without the numbers or the might to claim it,” Marcellus said.
They had only just recently learned of the plight of the fallen troop and only because a bird had brought them a piece of armor pained with the Vincanan crest, that of two crossed spears behind a golden shield on a red background. They followed the bird far enough to realize the castle was her destination and quickly summarized what had happened.
“They died for their disobedience,” Marcellus added. “They had not asked your permission nor mine to do as they had. In this case, they could not ask for forgiveness later because they paid with their lives.”
“If I had trained them better… If I had not been too busy—”
"Too busy fighting the battle they should have continued to fight until I ordered a retreat?" Marcellus shook his head. "No, Flavius. You are not to blame. Do not carry this burden upon your shoulders. You look only enough without that added weight."
Flavius flared his nostrils. “One-and-thirty is not that old,” he protested.
“Perhaps not.” Marcellus halted and turned to the commander. “Tell me about Horatia.”
"She…" A strange, almost romantic look crossed the Vincanan's face.
“The Valkyries,” Marcellus added hastily.
He had long thought that the commander and the Valkyrie had feelings for one another despite their supposed animosity. They had fought constantly, but Flavius had moved on from his first wife’s passing, and it seemed he had an eye for no other. While he was not unhappy that they had opted to stop arguing and to start loving instead perhaps, he did not need to know the details concerning their attachment.
“It seems to me they are torn,” Marcellus prompted, disliking the commander’s silence.
“Yes, it does seem that their allegiance is in question,” Flavius muttered.
The clouds parted enough that the sun’s rays hit the commander’s blond hair, making the strands appear golden, but Flavius’s face was quite the opposite, dark, overcast, and gloomy.
“Will you speak to Horatia for me?” Marcellus asked.
“As you wish, but, My Prince, you could talk to her yourself.”
“I could,” Marcellus said, “and I doubtless will at some point. That sai
d, I would appreciate any insight you can gleam.”
“She will hide nothing from you,” Flavius protested.
“And even less from you, I suspect.”
Flavius glanced away. His hair was more wavy than curly, like Marcellus’s, and it looked even more tussled when Flavius tugged on the ends.
“You’re unnerved. Why?”
“We are fighters, warriors. We long for battle. We are here for one purpose, and lately…”
“We need the wounded to recover,” Marcellus reminded him.
“Yes, yes, of course, but most of those burned have succumbed to their injuries. We have seen no signs of the dragons anywhere near here. If we were to…”
“What would you suggest?” Marcellus asked pointedly. “We cannot hope to lay siege to the castle. We do not have the numbers nor the food for that.”
“If we were to gain the alliance of villages and towns…”
“And have farmers join our numbers merely to have more bodies? We would have to feed them, arm them, and they would be like lambs to a slaughter.”
“The large cities have guards,” Flavius pointed out.
“Guards and knights who have sworn allegiance to the crown.”
“To the throne, and you sit on a throne.”
Marcellus rolled his eyes and shoved his shoulder against the man’s. “You are ridiculous.”
“I would say we need reinforcements, but you well know that. What would you suggest?”
“Flavius, I asked you that first,” Marcellus said dryly.
The commander hesitated. “Allow me to speak with Horatia, and then you can address the Valkyries yourself. Without them…”
Marcellus gave a clipped nod. He did not wish to think about losing Horatia and her female warriors. They were a force for good, but if they had to be the warriors of the dragons once more, then he would not move to stop them.
But what if the dragons wished to start anew with the Valkyries and pick their own warriors? What if the now Valkyries were deemed as lacking?