by David Estes
Breakfast was still a dozen miles away, but hard bread and dried meat was handed out as their march began. The line of refugees stretched out like a meandering river in the night, disappearing over the crest of a hill. Though their weariness was evident in the way they trudged along, carrying sacks of supplies, skins of water, and small children on their backs, Annise could also see the determination on their expressions. The people of the north had been through hard times and harder times, not the least of which was the rule of Annise’s own father, and they were stalwart. If she could only keep them moving, maybe, just maybe, they could survive this. Still, Annise planned to walk the entire line before they made camp again, offering encouragement. It was something that gave her as much comfort as it did her people.
Before she could pick up her pace, however, Annise’s aunt, Zelda, appeared beside her, mouth half-full. “When we reach Darrin…” Zelda said, never one to beat around any bush.
“I still don’t know,” Annise said, sighing. It was an argument they’d had on more than one occasion. Zelda was of the mindset that they should turn south and make for Raider’s Pass. But Annise was not willing to do that, for it would mean abandoning those of her people who’d already been evacuated to the east by Sir Christoff Metz and his squadron of women soldiers. Not only would she be leaving the loyal knight to fend for himself, but Tarin’s cousin too, Mona Sheary. Zelda, however, refused to give up, as stubborn as an eight-legged mule, as the northern expression went.
“We’ll be backed against the cliffs,” Zelda said. This was not an expression, but a truth Annise could not deny. They were retreating into a corner. To the north was the frozen wasteland known as the Hinterlands. To the south were the towering, impenetrable Mournful Mountains. And to the east, where they were heading, were the Black Cliffs, nicknamed the Razor due to the blade-sharp rocks that were all but unclimbable. Their foes would come from the west, their number as vast as the salt in the sea. And there would be no mercy.
“The east will hear our plea for assistance,” Annise said. They would reach Walburg soon, and if she didn’t receive a reply from King Gareth Ironclad there, she would send another stream, requesting a response to be sent directly to Darrin.
“And if they don’t?” Zelda’s jaws clamped down on a heel of bread, gnawing at it like a dog on a bone.
There was only one answer, and it was not to meet the Horde in open battle. Even behind Darrin’s thick stone walls, they would be outnumbered ten to one, perhaps more. It was a fight they could not win, even with a warrior such as Tarin in their midst.
“We shall force them to hear us,” Annise said, her words taking on a dangerous tone.
Tarin coughed.
“What?” Annise said, glaring at him.
He raised his hands, which were as large as the paws of an ice bear, defensively. “Apologies, Your Highness, I meant no offense. But I have fought the easterners half a hundred times. Even doing battle in the frozen north where we have an advantage, they are a formidable foe. And the way through the Mournful Mountains is treacherous and said to be full of traps.”
Annise wanted to break something. Was nothing simple? “What would you have me do, Sir?” she said. Despite her frustration, she couldn’t pull her gaze from his intense, dark eyes, his smooth glass-like skin, the lips she’d kissed just minutes earlier…
“Let me lead a party to harry the enemy. At the least we will slow them and give you a chance to negotiate safe passage to the east.”
She didn’t doubt his abilities in the least, but…
Oh, Tarin. Please don’t leave me.
Annise wanted to be selfish, but she also knew she couldn’t pick and choose when to be the queen and when to be that stubborn girl who always beat the boys when they played Snow Wars. “I will consider it.”
Tarin nodded, his lips parting to say something else, but a newcomer approached before he could. “Iron Fay,” Annise said. It was the nickname she had heard several people call the talented blacksmith. Annise quite liked it, because it was so appropriate for the woman who now walked beside her.
“Your Highness.” Fay’s dark hair was cut short, windblown and sticking up in several places. Her tight-fitting white shirt was damp and dusted with pine nettles. One sleeve was badly burned. A large hammer hung from her belt, the ensemble completed by thick woolen trousers and sturdy boots. If not for her long eyelashes and pretty brows, she could easily pass for a man, a knight’s squire perhaps.
“What news from the rear scouts?” Annise asked. Fay had volunteered to be the go-between for the rear scouts, and Annise couldn’t deny her. The blacksmith had already done so much for her, not the least of which was designing both hers and Tarin’s primary weapons.
Shadows fell across Fay’s eyes. “The Horde was spotted a dozen miles back, but they are closing rapidly. They haven’t slept in over a day.”
Frozen hell, Annise thought as she realized what this meant. Despite their ceaseless march, they’d lost ground over the last day. “How soon will they catch us?”
Fay swallowed. “At this pace, two days, three at the most.”
Zelda threw what was left of her hard bread, and Annise watched it skitter like a rock across the rough ground. “We won’t make Walburg, much less Darrin,” she said, though everyone was already thinking the same.
Tarin said, “Ann—Your Highness.”
“I know,” she said, already resigned to her decision, though making it felt like tearing her heart into two pieces. She’d lost so much already—her mother, her brother, friends and family—but she had no claim on suffering. Still, it felt like she’d only just regained Tarin, that they’d finally found a balance they could manage. Together. But she was the queen, bound by duty to her people, not to her heart. “Go,” she said, raising her voice to prevent it from breaking. “Take the strongest, bravest soldiers and slow our enemy. May the frozen gods of the north be with you.”
Four
The Southern Empire, Phanea
Shanti Parthena Laude
Shanti could see them—the dead. They were all around her, filling the spaces between the living, who were going about their business in the marketplace, oblivious to the ghosts. She knew some of them. Those she’d fought alongside. Those she’d plotted with. Rebels. Slaves. Great warriors.
All dead.
Falcon nearly walked into one and she almost warned him, but then caught herself. If he sensed anything was wrong, he would only watch her more.
She jammed her eyes shut and willed the dead to disappear. Why couldn’t they leave her in peace? Was she supposed to take solace in those who had survived? Is that what normal people did? Before she met Jai, her entire life felt like it was pulled as taut as a bowstring, but then
for just a moment
she’d let her guard down,
let herself fall,
her bowstring sagging slightly…
Why?
It was THE question, the one with no answer.
People talked to her sometimes, but their words had as little substance as the wind blowing past, stinging her eyes with the grit it carried. Even Falcon’s words were hollow. How could they be anything else?
The dead were quieter, their voices mere whispers, but every word was a pain-filled shout of warning. Shanti heard them. Heard them every second of every hour of every day of every—
She stopped, kneading her knuckles into her forehead to combat the pounding headache that had taken up residence.
Falcon was speaking again, leaning in close, wearing that expression of concern that had once been so endearing. Finally, the shouted whispers ceased, the silence in the background so abrupt that for a moment Shanti thought she might’ve lost her hearing completely. But then Falcon’s voice cut through the silence like a knife through butter. “Shanti? Are you all right? Are you ill?”
She straightened up, removed her fist from her forehead, and forced a smile to her lips. “It’s just the heat.”
“You should lie
down,” Falcon suggested, his brow still furrowed.
Falcon was a good man, she knew. If she’d never met Jai, she might’ve been happy with him. She might still be whole.
But that wasn’t what had happened, and she was far from whole.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m going to do that.”
Five
The Southern Empire, Phanea
Gareth Ironclad
“We need to send a reply immediately,” Gareth said, still staring at the wet note. The ink from the stamp marking the message as confidential was running off the paper, dripping red drops to the floor at his feet.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” the Phanecian stream worker said. “It seems we have run out of inkreeds for Ferria.”
“What about the north? I can reply directly to Queen Gäric.”
The narrow-eyed man shook his head. “My apologies.”
Gareth took a deep breath, determined not to let his frustration affect his actions. “How close can we send the stream?” he asked, frowning. Of all the bad luck…
“Uh…Sarris?”
Sarris? Great Orion save us all. Sarris might as well be an ocean away from Ferria. Two oceans from the north. By the time the message arrived, it could already be too late. Still, they might have a greater variety of inkreeds in Sarris…he had to try. “Send it. Bring me the ink.”
The stream worker bowed stiffly and departed. Though it was daytime, long shadows pushed through the arched windows on the far wall. It took three lanterns to cast enough light to see. Such was life in a canyon, where the sun only managed to find its way to the bottom for a few short hours a day.
Gareth sat at a table and read the note for the third time. It had been copied in Ferria and streamed to him here in the southern continent of Phanes. It was a request for help from Annise Gäric herself. Her people were under attack. Not by another kingdom, but by the same enemy they all now feared. The Horde.
Her army killed my father, he reminded himself. His brother, Guy, had died during the same battle, but at the hands of Bane, the Kings’ Bane. He’s still a Gäric, he thought, his teeth grinding together.
We attacked them, he reminded himself. Because my father could not forgive and forget. Long had the cycle of vengeance turned the wheel of the Four Kingdoms.
It must stop.
The stream worker returned, and Gareth swiftly penned a reply to Annise, promising her the assistance of the east. He requested that whomever received the note in Sarris forward it to every major northern city from Blackstone to Castle Hill to Darrin. Next he wrote another message, this one to his general in Ferria, charging him with providing safe passage to the northern refugees.
The Phanecian messenger accepted both messages with another bow and left to send them.
Gareth leaned back and sighed. It was the best he could do, for now. The Four Kingdoms had no choice but to come together if they were to survive. It should be easy, if not for the stubbornness of its people.
“Speaking of which,” Gareth muttered as Gwendolyn Storm, the heromarked Orian entered his quarters. Gods, she’s beautiful, he thought, though he wasn’t romantically interested in the female persuasion. Still, he couldn’t help but to admire the litheness of her armored form, each step as graceful as a dance, her silver hair framing her sharp-angled face. Her yellow catlike eyes pierced him with a stare.
“I’m leaving,” she said without preamble. She stopped only halfway across the room.
“But you just arrived. In my room, I mean.”
“I’m leaving Phanes,” she clarified.
“I know,” Gareth said. “After the council. Like we agreed.”
“I changed my mind. I’m leaving now. Raven must return to Calypso. She cannot wait any longer.”
Gareth wasn’t fooled. They’d been through too much together for her to hide her true intentions from him. “You haven’t spoken to Roan yet, have you?”
“That’s not why—”
“It is and you know it. I can’t believe the most fearless woman I’ve ever known is afraid of the Peacemaker.”
“I’m not afraid. I’d just rather not…distract him.”
“With your beauty,” Gareth said, making a show of licking his lips.
“With bad memories.” There was no humor in her tone, and Gareth felt bad for his previous remark. Gwen had opened up to him about how she’d last left things with Roan—how she’d disappointed him. But that was the past and everything had changed. Hadn’t it?
“You should talk to him.” I’m a fool, he thought a second later. Here he was trying to help the one woman who stood between him and the man he loved. Even worse was the fact that he’d barely spoken two words to Roan himself, and he wasn’t sure why.
“So should you,” Gwen countered, reading his mind.
“We could do it together,” Gareth suggested.
“That wouldn’t be awkward at all.”
Gareth laughed. “Exactly. It’ll be just like old times.”
Gwen finally managed a smile, albeit a thin one that suggested she’d rather shoot an arrow through his eye. “I’ll talk to him when this is all over.”
Gareth wasn’t about to let her off that easily. Tormenting Gwen was one of the few things that still gave him pleasure. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll talk to Roan first, and then—”
“No deal.”
“You haven’t even heard the rest.”
“You were going to say that I have to talk to him second.”
“Wrong. You must stay for the council. Then you can fly off into the sunset with your new best mate.”
“She’s not my—”
“Save it. Do we have a deal?”
Gwen tucked her bottom lip into her mouth, and then finally flashed a genuine smile. “Deal.”
Gareth pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ll find you after I talk to him. Don’t do anything drastic.”
Before she could respond, he swept past her and out of the room.
Gareth watched as Roan sat alone in one of the many courtyards nestled between the sheer rock faces of the great Phanecian canyons. Black marble balustrades surrounded the area, which was open only at one end, where a grand staircase connected it to the rest of the palace. The far wall was espaliered with southern fruit trees, their long vine-like branches climbing wooden lattices secured to the stone with iron bolts. Gareth knew from experience that the small yellow fruit hanging from the branches was exceptionally sweet, and usually tempered with flour and almonds.
He’d eaten it for breakfast three days in a row, taking the meals in his room, where it was safe.
What am I afraid of? he wondered.
Roan sighed and leaned back as an errant sunbeam found its way into the canyons, lighting his face. His skin was sun-browned, his hair bleached even more than the last time Gareth had seen him. When Roan had saved his life from Bane in Ferria. Again.
He is so beautiful, Gareth thought, but that wasn’t why he feared speaking to him again.
No. Gareth, despite being a king now, despite the role he’d played in the victory in the Bloody Canyons, despite having forged an alliance with the west, was still afraid of playing second fiddle. All his life it had been hammered into him that he was the Shield, born only to defend his brother, Guy, who was destined to become king of the east. But now that Guy was dead—Grian too—he was the heir to the throne. But that didn’t make him heir to Roan’s heart.
He didn’t want to compete with Gwendolyn—after all, she never lost at anything—but he also didn’t want to walk away without trying.
“Have I become a stranger to all those I love?” Roan said, his voice carrying across the space. There was something different about it. Something more assured. Confident.
He knows his purpose. The knowledge sent tendrils of excitement through Gareth, and he longed to run to him, to fall back into the way things were before.
“No,” Gareth said. “And yes.” He mounted the last step and started toward him, ta
king short sharp breaths but feeling starved for air. Roan’s eyes were still closed, his head still dipped back, and for a moment it appeared as if the light was coming from within him, rather than from the sun above. Which wasn’t entirely impossible.
When Gareth had closed the gap between them by half, Roan finally tilted his head toward him, his eyes fluttering open lazily. “A contradiction,” he said. “You’ve always been a contradiction.”
“Have I?” Gareth said, and suddenly it was as if no time had passed, as if Roan had never saved his life—twice—as if they were back at the beginning, when the world hadn’t changed either of them and life was simpler.
“Aye, like a snakebite without the venom!” Roan flashed a smile.
Gareth found himself smiling back. Why didn’t I go to him sooner? He’s Roan, not some demon. “I could bite you and we could find out,” he said.
Roan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m worried about Gwen,” he said, and the moment of frivolity burned away like thin paper in an inferno.
Gareth pretended the abrupt change of topic didn’t sting. “I know. Me too. But she’s fine. She’s…changed. We all have.”
“But in Calyp…”
“She told me what happened. She fears you’ll never speak to her again.”
Roan said, “What? She’s the one who ran away. She’s the one who was trying to assassinate the Sandes.”
“She didn’t.”
“I know, which is why I don’t understand her absence.”
Words burned in the back of Gareth’s throat, and he wished he didn’t have to speak them. But he did, because Gwen was his friend, for better or worse. “She loves you.”
“I—I know.”
Gareth couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips. “You know? Must be nice to be so secure with all the attention…”