by David Estes
He took a step forward, the distance between them, oddly, seeming to widen. “For making all this so hard on you. I should never have tried to get you to replace Jai with me. It wasn’t fair.”
To his surprise, she laughed. It wasn’t a mocking sound—more like an incredulous one. “You think this is about Jai?”
He frowned. Isn’t it? “Yes. You loved him. He was your soulmate. He was what I can never be.”
“Oh gods, Falcon, I’m so sorry. I—I thought you understood. This was never about Jai. At first maybe, but not for the last several years. It’s true—time heals most things. Jai’s loss still hurts, but it’s like an old scar now. My own failings hurt more. This has always been about me. That’s how selfish I am. That’s why I could never be worthy of you.”
“What?” Falcon couldn’t feel his feet, and yet he managed another step forward.
“Jai was a great man, but so are you. You are the two greatest men I have ever known. My heart may be small, but there is room for you both.”
Falcon wondered whether he’d fallen asleep, his love for Shanti spilling into his dreams. No, he thought. This is real. It has to be. It has to.
Shanti continued speaking, moving closer. “A part of me may always be broken, but that doesn’t mean I can’t live. I hate that it took what happened today to help me learn that, but the world is unpredictable.” What is she saying? “I’m finally ready.”
“For what?” Falcon’s voice sounded small to his own ears.
“For you.”
Shanti had reached him now, her fingers grasping his hand, sending a tingling sensation through the whole of his body. She dropped to her knees. “What are you—”
“Don’t be a fool, Falcon Hoza. I’m proposing to you.”
Epilogue 3: Noura Loren-Arris
The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End- Circa 548
Under the light of twin full moons, Noura Loren-Arris kissed Stanley Winchester. He was a roguish sort, dark-eyed and handsome with a firm chest and arms on account of carrying barrels of fine wine throughout the palace at Knight’s End. Here in the quiet shadows of the cryptlands, it was everything Noura thought a first kiss would be: heart-pounding and breathtaking, clumsy hands and urgent lips and—
She froze, clutching at her own head, which was suddenly full of buzzing, as if home to a swarm of bees. Stanley, oblivious to her discomfort, went right on kissing, his lips working their way to her chin, her neck…
“Please,” she said. “Stop.” If he heard her, the eager boy gave no indication.
The buzzing intensified, as it always did, and Noura knew somewhere in the Four Kingdoms there was the great suffering that came before, during, and after violence. The pain of injury; the finality of death; the sorrow of the survivors. She had the sudden urge to run, to find those in pain, to help them in any way she could—whether that involved her peacemark or not.
Stanley was still kissing, his hands trying to find their way beneath her dress. Though she abhorred violence, her mother hadn’t raised her to be weak.
“Stop!” she said, louder this time. When he continued to ignore her, she shoved him, swinging her arm about and elbowing him in the lip.
He stared at her, aghast. “I said stop,” she breathed. Her uncle Roan, if he still lived, would’ve been as shocked as Stanley. Some peacemaker I am, she thought. Drawing first blood. Then again, she was only peacemarked. It was Uncle Roan who had been the Peacemaker. A subtle distinction, but an important one.
“You’re as mad as your mother,” the boy said, reaching up to touch his bottom lip, which was bleeding.
“My mother is the greatest woman I have ever known,” Noura said, momentarily distracted from that buzzing in her head. “Thus, I shall take that as a compliment.”
Stanley shook his head. “A lesser man would leave you alone in the cryptlands, but I will wait without the wall to escort you back to the castle.”
“No need,” Noura said. “My man has been watching the entire time. Just now he has an arrow pointed at your heart.”
“You expect me to believe—”
Somewhere atop the wall surrounding the Loren crypt, a bowstring sang, though it wasn’t heard until the arrow had zipped past, plunking into the tree under which they’d been kissing.
“Holy gods of the south,” Stanley hissed. “I might’ve been killed!”
“Don’t be so dramatic. Sir Cory is an excellent shot. If he’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”
“Madness,” Stanley said, rising to his feet and stumbling away, tripping once on a root before righting himself and exiting through the main door.
Noura sighed. “Was that really necessary, Sir?” she said, peering up at the wall, where a form stood erect, bow gripped loosely in one hand. Her parents had always been honest with her, and thus they had earned her own trust and respect. No sneaking about, her mother had counselled. Don’t turn out like me. We won’t stop you from making bad choices, but we will protect you. Sir Cory shall accompany you wherever you go, a silent observer. He won’t intrude unless requested or he feels you are in danger.
“Nay, but I’m entitled to a bit of fun now and again, aren’t I?” the knight said. “And he might’ve deserved it a little.”
Noura couldn’t deny that fact, though on another night she mightn’t have been so swift to reject the young man’s advances. He was handsome, after all.
But the buzzing, she thought, once more feeling the bite of thousands of tiny bee stings in her head.
“My lady?” Sir Cory said, already climbing down a narrow stone staircase to the ground. “Are you ill?”
“No. Thank you. I’m just tired.”
“We should be getting back.”
“I know, but…can I request a short while longer? I want to pay my respects to my ancestors.” She felt slightly bad playing such a sacrilegious card, but she couldn’t imagine trying to walk home feeling like this. She knew the knight would carry her if needed, but her mother had not raised her as the type of woman to be carried when in distress.
“Of course. I shall wait without the door. Shout if you need me.”
“Thank you, Sir. But I shall be fine.”
The moment the knight was gone, she pressed her thumbs into her temples, concentrating. She felt her skin grow hot, and then images began flashing through her mind. Phanes. The great canyon city. A tournament of some sort. No. No! The violence arrived with such speed and brutality she could feel every sword slash, every life laid to waste. It was the antithesis to everything she held sacred.
And then it was over. She released a deep breath, her heart slowing, her skin cooling until she was shivering in the dark. She hugged herself and leaned back into the ancient tree that was meant to symbolize the strength of all the Loren souls who had traveled from this life into the seventh heaven.
Noura had read about such beliefs in the history books. She knew of the deity, Wrath, and its minions, the furia, though the sisterhood had been abolished shortly after she was born. According to her parents, those devout women had been misguided in their faith, believing in the lording of violence as a way of forcing righteousness. Still, Noura liked to believe her ancestors were in another place, looking down upon her. From the stars, perhaps, like the southerners believed.
Already, she was feeling more at peace. Perhaps it was knowing the unrest in Phanes had been temporarily quelled, or perhaps it was this resting place of the dead.
The stars shone brightly, an ocean of reds and golds and greens. Her father had taught her all about the stars. He’d once been a sailor. At least that was the term he used, though Noura had heard the rumors of another, more appropriate title. Pirate, she thought. She smiled at the thought. Her father, a pirate? Impossible. He was the gentlest, most doting man she’d ever met. Not some swashbuckling scoundrel fighting and thieving his way across the Burning Sea.
She raised a hand, using a finger to trace the constellations she knew so well. Her uncle, the Peacemaker, with his lon
g flowing hair. He was on his knees, hands raised to the sky, calling upon his lifemark to save lives at the end of the battle known as the Fall of All Things. It had been his last, and greatest, act, when she was but a babe in her mother’s arms.
The Lost Son lay nearby, a cluster of stars forming the three drops of blood on his chest. The painmark, Noura thought. The great villain of this century, his Horde the subject of many a book, some reading almost as fiction though every word was supposedly true.
Noura still didn’t quite understand her own role in the battle, though her parents had told her the story many times. Her marking had somehow lit up the night sky, driving away Klar-Ggra’s pain-filled mist. Apparently, that had helped turn the tide of evil, giving them a chance to emerge victorious. But how? she wondered now. How as an infant had she managed such a thing?
And why now did she feel so helpless each time she felt the pull of violence and unrest, a silent observer to the misfortunes of a world that had been so kind to her? Why can’t I do anything to help?
She sighed, finally rising to her feet. She really shouldn’t linger much longer, else her father lose his mind with worry. He might’ve allowed her certain freedoms, but that didn’t change who he was.
Noura glanced once more at the battle in the sky before heading for home.
Noura had just finished telling her parents about the vision of Phanes she’d had the night before, when a knock sounded.
“Enter,” her mother said. She was garbed in a flowing red dress that accentuated her pregnant belly, as ripe as a rock melon. Noura was excited to be a big sister, something she’d coveted for many long years.
The messenger opened the door, his eyes flitting worriedly between all three of them before settling on Rhea Loren. “A stream arrived from Phanes. The king has requested your presence.”
Noura’s mother didn’t ask what information the message contained, because she already knew. The uprising. The odd thing was: Noura had woken up with bees in her head this morning. Not as powerful as the night before, but still there, an ever-present drone between her ears. She’d focused, trying to see the violent images that usually came with the bees, but she’d seen nothing.
What does it mean? she wondered.
When no one said anything, Noura’s father said, “Thank you. You may go.”
The messenger didn’t move. “I’m supposed to escort you.”
“Are you now?” Rhea said, firing arrows from her eyes at the poor man.
Noura felt somewhat bad for him, caught between a king and a woman who’d once been a queen. Talk about a rock and a hard place.
As usual, it was Noura’s father who brought balance to his fiery wife. He placed a gentle hand on her knee and said, “We will come.” Rhea refocused her ire on Grey, but he merely smiled in response. “It was you who relinquished the throne to him, was it not?”
“A decision I regret every day,” Rhea said, which almost made Noura laugh. She knew her mother well enough to recognize the white lie. The messenger, however, seemed to take it at face value, blanching at the treasonous statement.
In truth, Noura knew, her mother thought her cousin Ennis was a great king. Of course, they did butt heads from time to time. But such a thing was inevitable when two rams tried to pass each other on a narrow road.
“Come, daughter, wife,” Grey said, always diplomatic. He stood and extended his hands to both sides. “The king beckons.”
Noura stood immediately, taking his hand. She was her father’s little princess, a position she didn’t begrudge just because she was now a woman grown. Her mother, on the other hand, took her precious time, pretending to groan and struggle as she arose, refusing to take her husband’s hand, instead settling both her palms on her belly.
Grey chuckled and led Noura from the room.
King Ennis filled the throne well, his arms settling onto each armrest, his back straight and broad. Despite being somewhat older than Rhea’s parents, he had aged well, his silver-gray hair quite striking as it framed his knightly face.
Noura bowed and took up the correct position to the left. Across the way, her cousin grinned at her. Ennis had several children, but Harriet was the closest to Noura’s age, and they’d been fast friends since before they could walk. She was a pretty, fashionable girl, and Noura always appreciated her sense of style. Today she wore an aqua velvet dress that fell just above her knees, displaying so much skin Noura was certain several generations of Lorens were rolling over in the crypts. The sleeves and neck were modest, however—“Only give the boys a taste to keep them coming back,” Harriet always said. Of course, she rarely stuck with the same boy for more than a few days. Noura managed to grin back, though the buzzing in her head was picking up again, causing her some discomfort.
Her cousin’s smile faded and she mouthed, Are you all right?
She knows me too well, Noura thought, managing a slight nod that did little to erase Harriet’s frown. Her cousin knew all about the buzzing bees and her visions. Few others, save Noura’s parents, were aware of the same. King Ennis was one, as was his wife, Queen Bernadette, a stately woman who was one of the few people who could handle Noura’s mother. She stood beside the king, her own hair piled in a nest atop her head, her tall, slender form clothed in a regal gray dress appropriate for a queen.
Rhea made a show of taking a plush seat that had been especially prepared for her. Grey rolled his eyes and exchanged a knowing glance with the king.
Noura, however, barely noticed, her head beginning to ache from the bees. Something bad is happening again, she thought. But what? And where?
The king whispered to his wife, who said, “The uprisings in the south are growing bolder.” In addition to being Ennis’s wife and counsellor, the queen was also his mouthpiece, due to his severed nub of a tongue, which had been taken by Klar-Ggra sixteen years hence.
“We know,” Rhea said. Noura’s mother had a tendency to thrive on information. Control. “Noura has been…feeling it almost every day.”
“Last night was the worst,” Noura blurted out, because she had to say something to release the tension in her head. It didn’t help and she cringed.
Ennis frowned, whispering more to the queen. “Another attack today?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Noura admitted. “I haven’t seen anything. But…it hurts.”
“Oh sweetness,” her father said, roping an arm around her. “You should have told us.”
“It’s only gotten worse just now,” she said.
“You should lie down,” Rhea said. “I will send the healers with a potion, something to help you sleep.”
“I’m all right,” Noura said. The last thing she wanted was to be reduced to a foggy stupor. That was worse than the pain.
After consulting with the king, the queen said, “This is most disturbing information. The stream we received today was fairly specific that we not send aid. The Phanecians seem to have the situation under control.”
“Obviously not,” Rhea said harshly, gesturing to Noura. “My daughter is not a complainer. If she is in distress, things are about to get much worse for our neighbors to the south.”
“What if it’s not the south?” Grey said, squeezing Noura’s arm. “Are you certain?” he asked her, his eyes full of compassion.
“I—I don’t know. All of my visions this year have been of Phanes.”
“See?” Rhea said, as if some irrefutable conclusion had been arrived at. “If we don’t act now, the peace we’ve enjoyed for almost two decades will be at risk.”
Just then, the pain intensified and Noura cried out, dropping to her knees. Her father joined her a moment later, cradling her head against his chest. His hand smoothed her hair, drawing it away from her face.
Just as swiftly as it had arrived, the pain vanished.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Noura said, beginning to pace across the room.
Harriet frowned, her hand hovering over the parchment she’d been sketching on. “You must res
t, Nor.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Completely. I don’t feel anything. Well, except bored.”
“Read one of those history books you’re so fond of,” her cousin suggested, her hand once more moving across the page. Harriet was a talented artist, particularly when it came to faces.
Noura considered her suggestion, but just as quickly discarded it. Getting lost in the pages of a book didn’t interest her right now. “Please.”
“Fine,” Harriet huffed, making it sound like the notion was the greatest inconvenience in the world. “But let me finish my sketch. It’s almost done.”
Noura flopped down onto her soft bed, inspecting the stone ceiling. She closed her eyes, willing herself to see something. Anything. Not knowing what her earlier pain had been caused by was somehow worse than knowing. The fear of the unknown, she thought. I am more like my mother than I like to think. I have the same need for control as she does. It was true: Noura was used to knowing everything. Because of her peacemark and the knowledge it provided, she was brought in on other matters, too. She knew what was happening in all corners of the Four Kingdoms. For example, the north had finally managed to rebuild Blackstone, and the northerners were in the process of constructing ships for a voyage of exploration to Crimea. To the east, King Gareth Ironclad had recently celebrated his name day. Noura’s mother had received an invitation to the party, but in her current state she’d declined, muttering something about the entire affair being nothing but “an excuse to eat and drink and carry on like a merry band of fools.” Noura had detected the disappointment in her mother’s voice.
Calypso, on the other hand, was relatively closed off from the other nations. The southerners preferred the isolation their geographical location provided. Tucked across two large bodies of water, Dragon Bay and the Burning Sea, and behind the vast Scarra Desert, the southern nation might’ve been on the other side of the world. Still, there was a market for their spiced snake meat, fine silk scarves, and rare dragon-fang jewelry. Empress Whisper Sandes, however, had refused to even discuss the notion of trade. Once a year she sent a stream reiterating her position and denying further discussion.