by D L Sims
Ikar pierced his mother with cool gray eyes. “We will survive this.”
“I pray to Gods that we do, Ikar.”
Despite his unease at leaving his mother behind, Ikar nodded, kissing her on the cheek. He exited the tavern and found his horse where he had left it. A soldier was just exiting the town, and Ikar galloped on the white steed to catch up with him.
“You know, I was raised in Alithane,” the man said, turning his head to look at the empty town. “My father worked in the coal mines.”
Ikar was not one to make small talk, but things change during war, so he supposed he could at least make a friend while they traveled back to Rivland; he needed the distraction from the sick feeling in his stomach. “I hear the mines are haunted.”
The man laughed. “They very well could be.”
“You smell like animals.” These were the first words Roslen uttered when Ikar found her in the castle gardens. She giggled. “But I will hug you all the same.”
“I’m honored,” he said, deadpan, wrapping her in his arms. “How is our child?” Ikar kneeled to kiss her swelling belly.
“She can probably smell you in there.”
“How do you know it’s a girl? It could be a boy.”
“Or it could have horns,” Brair’s voice came from the other side of the wall. He laughed. “But Uncle Briar will still love him, her, it.”
“Hush, Bri,” Roslen tutted at her brother.
Briar came around the wall. His eyes looked glassy as if he had been crying. “I’m glad you’re back, Ikar.”
“You mean you’re glad I didn’t die.”
Briar smiled slightly. “They closed the gates to the city. No one is coming in or going out.”
“What about Grant and the others?”
“They’re en route to Palamar,” Ikar answered. He had just come from a strategy meeting with the General of the Royal Troops, Master Roxell, and the heads of the noble families who had stayed in the castle. “The Palman docks remain open, but only until sunrise. If they don’t make it back in time--”
“They will be lucky,” Roslen interjected. “They won’t have to fight.”
Ikar laughed. “You didn’t hear Andalen before they left. She is ready. She wants all the Mezerans on the end of her arrows.”
“They’re not bringing the Palmans here?” Briar questioned, plucking a rose from the soil.
“Don’t let the servants see you,” Ikar warned, chuckling. “They’ll have your head for ruining the royal flowers.” He wrapped an arm around Roslen and kissed her temple. “No. There are too many people in Elthare to fit in Rivland. The only thing we can do is fortify both cities and hope for the best.”
“You were never one for optimism,” Roslen said. “What do you think is going to happen?”
Ikar mulled it over. The realist in him believed they were doomed; the Eltharians were outnumbered, and the Mezerans have already taken over two cities. They continued to move west, and for every Mezeran the Eltharian soldiers killed, two more popped up in its place. So, yes, Ikar believed they were doomed. But he wanted to believe they were going to come out of this with their kingdom still intact. He wanted to believe that he was going to be able to see his child grow, and also marry the one person he loved more than life itself.
“I don’t have an answer for that, my love, but I am praying to the Gods that we win, and to send every last Mezeran to the fucking Infernal Flames.”
The city was quiet when they pulled into the dock. Above, Grant could make out the large outline of twenty dragons and their riders.
Queen Selia hadn’t provided them with her entire army, but she was willing to lend twenty of her dragon riders, and 5o,ooo troops. The sea behind them was littered with Lysin ships.
Lord Monneaire and Lady Pedgram met them on the shoreline. Lord Monneiare appeared to be sober for the moment, but Lady Pedgram’s eyes were swollen and red.
“You did well,” she praised Andalen, Arlen and Grant. Her eyes slid over them to Lord Sinero. “The Soldarens refused?”
Lord Sinero shrugged. “Did we expect anything else?”
“I suppose not.”
Behind them, the Lysin soldiers rowed small dinghies to the shore. The twenty dragons landed on the beach, kicking up white sand in every direction. The leader dismounted her dragon and met them on the wooden docks.
“I am Geta.” Her Lysin accent was very heavy, and there was a roughness about Geta that Grant hadn’t experienced before. “It is honor to come to your aid.”
“We appreciate it,” Lord Monneaire extended his hand toward the dragon rider. “Come. We have set up camp in the Atrium.”
The tense quiet in Palamar made Grant uneasy. He was used to music and dancing, the smell of cooking meat filling the air. The multicolored lights that usually lit the streets at night were dowsed, bathing the different colored buildings in shadows.
Grant followed behind Geta and the others, hanging back with Andalen and Arlen. “Something’s wrong. Did you see Lady Pedgram’s eyes?”
“She had been crying,” Andalen agreed,fiddling with her necklace. “You don’t think Khett--?”
Arlen stiffened and quickened his pace to catch up with the former queen. They stopped to speak while the others continued down the cobbled streets to the Square.
Behind them, Arlen let out a loud, gut-wrenching wail.
“Oh, Gods,” Andalen whispered and doubled back to her brother.
Grant kept pace with Lord Monneaire and the others.
“How did it happen?” Grant asked. “With Khett?”
“Oszerack was ambushed. He’s not dead. The Warlocks have been working to heal him.”
Grant let out a sigh of relief before he thought: Lonnie.
Grant’s eyes met his father’s, but he couldn’t ask. He couldn’t bear to bring the words to leave his lips.
“The Hesitos?” Lord Sinero asked.
“Alive.”
Grant released a breath and quickened his footsteps. He needed to see Lonis, make sure he was still whole. Still alive.
The Atrium sat middle of Palamar; it was a large multicolored building with no roof, adorned with gold filigree and marble pillars. For hundreds of years, festivals and live performances had been held in the vast structure. Several tents, ranging from being able to hold twenty people, to only being able to hold one, stood erect in the open space. There was hardly enough room between each one to walk.
Which one is Lonis in?
Grant scanned the canvas as if the blank, beige cloths could give him the answer. He broke off from the group and began winding his way through the ropes and stakes.
Voices murmured low in each tent, but none of them were Lonis. He heard Milden in one, talking to Ralsair. And next to that, he finally heard the warm, familiar tones he was searching for.
He pushed up the flap to find Lonis and Nixema chatting in the semi-dark. A glowing stone sat between them, casting eerie shadows across their faces. Nixema hurried to her feet.
“You’re back. Andalen, is she--”
“She’s fine,” Grant assured her. “But they just found out about Khett.”
“Gods.” Nixema scurried from the tent.
Lonis rose to his feet. He was so tall that his head brushed the canvas above.
“Did you bring help?” Lonis asked, inching closer to Grant. He looked unsure of himself. Grant could almost see him thinking: Did you read my letter?
“I brought dragons.” Because he loved nothing more than to irritate Lonis, he then launched into his adventures on the sea. He told Lonis about Andalen and Arlen throwing up into the water, stargazing with his father and learning the life stories of the crew. As he spoke, he could see Lonis' impatience growing, and Grant couldn’t help but smile. “Rookery really is an awful cook.”
“Grantham.”
Grant blinked. “I hate when you use my whole name.” He stepped forward and kept walking until he and Lonis were chest to chest. “I read your letter.”
“And I am not prone to flowery prose and dramatic declarations of love!”
Lonis laughed. “You are the most dramatic person I know, Sin. Remember when we were sixteen, and you wrote that poem for Milden? She threw it in the river.” Lonis laughed again. “Or when we were ten, and your Pa banned you from going to the bakery after lessons, and you thought you would literally die if you didn’t have a roll every day. You claimed you needed them to survive through your lessons.”
Grant clamped a hand over Lonis' mouth. “Stop talking and kiss me.”
Lonis' eyes twinkled as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Grant’s. His arms slid around Lonis' neck, fingers tangling in the black hair at the base of his neck.
Everything around them: Every sound, every second, the entire world seemed to fade. It was only them, and this moment.
The moment their entire lives had been leading to since Lonis came to live at the Sinero Estate.
Once their hands began to roam, and the kiss became more passionate, Grant wondered how he had gone so many years without this. Without Lonis. How had he not combusted with sheer want? How did he survive being around Lonis day after day and not felt his hands on him, or his mouth on his.
Lonnie is right. You are dramatic.
Grant told his brain to fuck off and enjoy the moment.
“Say the words,” he demanded, working his lips to Lonis' jaw. “I want to hear them out loud.”
Lonis placed his fingers under Grant’s chin and met his eyes. “I love you, Sin.” He kissed Grant again. “It has always, always been you.”
Grant beamed. “Now say them again.”
Lonis chuckled. “Why do I feel like this is going to become a thing?”
“Because you’re a smart man, and it is.” Grant pulled back, toying with Lonis' hair. “I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I started loving you as more than a friend, but I do love you. So much.” Grant hit his shoulder. “See? That was not at all dramatic.”
Lonis chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I take back everything I said about you, Sin. Please, tell me more, in your undramatic way, how much you love me.”
Grant silenced Lonis by kissing him again.
Andalen stepped into the small tent they kept Khett in. The small area smelled of herbs and smoke, and too many bodies pressed into one space. Lady Pedgram hovered by her son’s head, smoothing his chestnut hair back from his pale, clammy face. Fresia sat at his side, his limp hand gathered in her lap. Petau bent over Khett, brushing a sickening green salve over the wound at Khett’s throat. He muttered an incantation under his breath.
No one spoke for several moments, watching the warlock work. When he paused in his spell, he looked over at Andalen and Arlen, giving them a small, uncomfortable smile.
“Cousins. I am glad to find you well.”
“Petau.” Andalen took a step forward. “How is he?”
Andalen couldn’t take her eyes off Khett’s body. He hardly looked as if he were breathing. His skin was nearly gray. Blood had dried on his uniform, staining the red fabric a deeper color around the collar.
“He isn’t healing.” Petau ground some sort of purple herb with a pestle. “I’m afraid Kurem will come for him before the week is out.”
“There is nothing you can do?”
Fresia tensed at Andalen’s question.
Petau looked grave. “Even magic has its limits.”
Andalen looked behind her to her brother. Arlen’s face was smooth in shock. His hands gripped the fabric of his shirt. Tears slid down his umber face.
“Ari.”
Andalen gathered her brother in her arms, holding him tight, allowing her brother the moment of sorrow when she herself wanted nothing more than to sob for the man before them.
The flap of the tent opened, and a man no older than seventeen strolled in. He looked very much like Khett, but he was more slender, and his eyes were green, and with darker hair. He held himself with the same Pedgram confidence as Khett and the King before the Illness took him.
Behind him, an elderly woman peered into the tent with a click of her tongue.
“It smells like death in here.”
“Who are you?” Fresia asked, clinging even more to Khett. “Only Khett’s friends and family are allowed in here.”
“Lucky for you, love,” the man said. “I am the latter. Aunt Lily, please clear the room so Bethanie can work. She will heal Khett.”
“Chris--” but something in her nephew’s gaze stopped her, and she nodded. “Everyone, please, leave.”
Despite the unease in Andalen’s gut, she followed the others outside. Something unsettled her gut, but she was so desperate for Khett to live that she ignored it.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
The tent they had another strategy meeting in was large enough to fit a full-sized table and eight chairs. Grant stood at the front of the tent, near the entrance, and away from General Anrick Sinero. His uncle had always believed Grant to be spoiled and soft. Anrick had wanted Grant to train in the Royal Guard like his cousins, Johan and Vilhem III. Instead, Lord Sinero had raised Grant to be educated not only in combat, but in arithmetic, the arts and literature.
The plan was changing again. Grant hadn’t been listening, so he wasn’t completely sure, but it sounded as if they were evacuating Palamar. Geta stood tall and strong next to General Sinero, refusing to be intimidated by his sneers whenever she suggested something.
Grant didn’t really understand why he needed to be a part of these meetings. He never had anything to offer, and even if he did, his uncle and cousins shot his input down faster than he could blink.
“If you do not evacuate, the Mezerans will destroy people.”
“We will meet them head-on,” Johan countered. “We’ll take the armies and the dragons, and ambush them in the woods, Odenmal and Oszerack. We’ll take back the cities.”
“Why not do both?” Geta argued. “My queen has said your people can take refuge in Lysic until war ends, and we can ‘take back cities’.”
Johan looked ready to argue, but couldn’t come up with anything. “Father?”
General Sinero rubbed a hand over his beard. His Royal Guard uniform was pulled taut over his chest and biceps. He looked rather Godlike dressed in all white.
Grant rolled his eyes.
“I supposed it could work.” He continued to rub his beard.
“Gods,” Lord Sinero threw up his hands. “Anrick, you know it’s a solid plan. You’re only hesitating because she’s a woman.”
“And she’s not Eltharian,” Anrick said.
Grant rolled his eyes again.
“We can send the people in Palamar out on boats, and the ones in Rivland through the forest, over the border into Lysic,” Lady Pedgram said.
“Yes, My Lady. That does seem like a good plan,” Vilhem III said, bowing.
“Fine,” General Sinero conceded. “After we clear out Palamar, we ride for Rivland.” He closed his eyes and seemed to be praying. When he opened them again, he stared at each individual in the room. “If the castle falls, we fall.”
Fire messages had been sent to the others in Rivland. They confirmed and planned to have the city evacuated by nightfall.
Grant’s heart squeezed. He had read about the wars in history and never had they had to empty the entire kingdom to protect it. He felt very little hope for the outcome of this war.
All across the sandy beaches, dinghies were ferrying Eltharians to the Lysin ships that waited further out at sea. Dragons zipped through the air, carrying people to make the process faster.
“Please tell me you’re getting on one of those ships,” Lonis said as they helped an elderly woman into a rowboat.
“I’m not.” Grant ran a hand through his hair, looking at the ship in the distance that held Ralsair and Milden. Ral had kicked and screamed, wanting to stay with her father and brothers, as Milden dragged her aboard. Grant hated telling them goodbye. “You get on th
e fucking ship.”
“I’ve been training for this, Sin.”
“I may not be a soldier,” Grant said, wishing he could reach out and hug Lonis to him, but he knew the risks. The guard was watching. There were too many people around. “But I will die for this fucking kingdom. My heart beats Elthare blood, Lonnie.” He picked up a small toddler and put the child in beside the old lady. “Besides, if you’re not getting on the ship, then neither am I.”
“You’re so stubborn,” Lonis said, but didn’t press the issue further. There was a deep fear in his eyes every time he looked at Grant.
Further down the shoreline, Andalen was hugging Arlen and Nixema before they climbed on the back of a black dragon. Arlen was still upset with her. He didn’t want to leave, but Andalen had to keep him safe. His fighting skills were pale in comparison to everyone else’s.
“I need you to keep Nix safe.”
People kept cutting them sour looks. All able men between the ages of seventeen and sixty were supposed to fight, but the Noble council had made an exception for Arlen. Those that were giving him looks didn’t know that he had started to see things as warped and distorted at the age of fifteen in his right eye. They didn’t know that he found it difficult to draw and paint like he used to years ago. They didn’t know that he was starting to go completely blind in that eye, and it terrified him.
The Noble Council had not known until Andalen told them about his disorder that morning. Arlen had begged her not to share his secret, but she would do anything to keep him safe, even if that meant betraying his trust.
“I can’t lose you two,” Andalen said, clutching both of their hands.
“Ari, promise me you’ll enjoy life. Promise me you’ll fall in love again.”
“Andi. Stop talking like you’re going to die.”
Nixema sobbed into the sleeve of her dress. The Lysin was patient as they said their goodbyes. He allowed them their privacy, but Andalen could see the empathy playing out on his rugged features.