by Mason Thomas
Dax waited before he released Hunter and then stepped out of the alcove.
“What the actual fuck,” Hunter breathed.
Dax didn’t reply, but stared down the direction they’d gone with a tightened jaw.
“Who in the hell were those thugs?” Hunter asked. His heart thumped with revulsion and anger. He’d witnessed plenty of brutality on the rugby pitch over the years—broken bones, gashes that bled so much it looked like a murder scene. He considered himself fairly hardened on the matter. But he found himself stunned with his hands shaking. He’d never seen anything so heartless and cruel.
“They call themselves the Black Brotherhood,” Dax replied. “An unofficial patrol, we believe. Answering directly to the queen.”
“What are they going to do with him?”
Dax didn’t answer but let the silence linger between them. Then, he tilted his head for Hunter to follow. “Let’s go.”
Still shaken by the incident, Hunter followed Dax deeper into the city. They merged into broader, more trafficked thoroughfares. Here, crowds were heavier, but Hunter noted a steady influx of even more people filtering in, like water trickling into the bottom of a sinking ship. The mood of the swelling crowd was muted, almost docile. And everyone seemed to be flowing in the same direction, herded along as if by some unseen force.
Dax’s smaller frame threaded the growing crowd easily while Hunter had a harder time forcing his bulk through to keep up. Only occasionally did Dax glance back to make sure Hunter was still behind him.
Over the clay tile rooftops, the grand alabaster towers of the castle loomed larger. They were nearing the center of the city.
They reached a bridge that spanned the river, and the crowd marched on over it. Dax and Hunter were caught up in the flow. White marble statues stood as sentries along each side. The figures, all dressed in extravagant armor and wielding oversized weapons, stared down at the crowd with pinched faces, disgusted by the rabble that crossed at their feet. The stone sparkled in the sun, utterly free of the city’s grime. No crevice or crack was in any way soiled. The purity of it was astonishing—until Hunter spotted boys and girls, dressed in rags, straddling the balustrade and scrubbing away at the stone with brushes latched to both hands.
No one around him seemed to notice the beauty of the bridge—or the poor urchins that kept it in the condition it was in. They marched along, oblivious.
“Stay close,” Dax said over his shoulder as he slid the hood of his cloak over his head.
On the other side of the bridge, the street twisted around official-looking buildings with more of the guards clad in red leather posted outside. They leered at any from the crowd who drifted too close. Hunter identified other structures as likely temples of some sort, but the symbols and iconography that adorned them were alien and strange. The religions here seemed to have no parallel to his own world.
After one final bend, the street opened into a massive square. At the far end was the wall of the castle.
The crowd spread out but still moved toward the far side of the square. Already a large throng of people had taken position beneath the balcony that reached out over the edge of the square.
“A lot of people,” Hunter commented, more to himself.
Dax frowned underneath his hood. “Fewer than they once were.”
“Why are we here, Dax?”
Dax looked over his shoulders, and Hunter could only just make out his eyes underneath the hood. “Same reason everyone else is here. To pay our respects to the king and queen.”
The king and queen?
The cold edge in Dax’s tone told Hunter that was not at all why they were here. Hunter’s stomach clenched like a fist, sensing danger. Dax was up to something—and Hunter knew on instinct he wasn’t going to like it.
Hunter scanned around him, looking for others who might be resistance members. Others with hoods drawn up over their heads. What the hell was going on?
They worked their way across the great square, past the colossal statue of a man on a horse on their left, and a shrine or monument surrounded by a circle of pillars to the right. The crowd below the balcony was swelling. When Dax and Hunter reached the outer boundary of it, Dax was undeterred and cut in deeper. Hunter took a deep breath and followed.
He hated tight spaces—and for him, tight crowds were the worst. They had an unpredictable energy about them, the way they shifted and shoved. There was nowhere to go if something went wrong. He forced himself in to keep up with Dax, bringing on some fiery complaints as he pushed in deeper, but most of the protests withered away when they saw his size. Bodies were pressed up against him on all sides. He couldn’t escape it. His heart rate spiked, and sweat beaded on his forehead.
He’d been in enough crowds to know they all had their own unique temperament. And the mood of this was odd. It was stilted. Apprehensive. Unnatural in a way he couldn’t explain. He spotted two more of the Black Brotherhood, one circling the perimeter of the crowd, the other slicing through it. Both scanned the faces around them with tight brows and hard gazes like panthers stalking prey. The people formed a wide corridor for them to move through when they spotted their approach, and parents clutched their children close to them as they passed.
Dax slowed and made a cursory glance Hunter’s way, presumably to make sure Hunter had kept up. The look was quick, but it had an oily slickness to it. He was up to something. At Dax’s shoulder, Hunter scrutinized him, studied his taut stance. He seemed alert—watchful. But cool.
Two jesters, dressed in riotous colors and absurdly large hats, pranced and cavorted about the balcony. Chuckles spread through the crowd at their antics, but few seemed genuinely invested in the performance. Toward the end of their routine, they tossed weighted streamers into the crowd. People cheered as the brightly colored meteors of ribbon sailed into the air. Bodies lunged and collided where they arched down into the crowd.
One of the streamers came down near Hunter and Dax, and a scuffle broke out to snag it. Hunter caught a glimpse of the weighted end before it was snatched and clutched against the winner’s chest—a portly little man with the face of a toddler. A small sack. The man loosened the drawstring and dug his fingers inside. He plucked out a shiny gold coin and held it up in the air between his finger and thumb for everyone to see.
“Many of these people are visitors to the city,” Dax said. The harsh edge of his voice had softened, and Hunter caught a glum undertone he’d not heard before. “Some return out of loyalty. Perhaps hope. But that is the main reason they come. Handouts.”
Once the jesters had thrown the last of their favors out, they bounced up and down with fervent waves to the crowd below, then disappeared through the doors at the back of the balcony. The crowd made a collective moan of disappointment.
Hunter sighed. They’d been traveling all day, and his feet were tired and blistered from Corrad’s ill-shapen boots. He was no longer in the mood for this, and his temper was fraying.
“Patience,” Dax said, obviously reading Hunter’s body language. “Nearly time.”
The sound of trumpets exploded from above. Three men in red midlength coats and tights had slipped out to replace the clowns, and they stood at the balustrade with their long instruments to their lips and blasted out a triumphant fanfare that left no doubt what was coming next. An expectant hush fell over the crowd as everyone lifted their heads toward the balcony.
A tautness was in the air, as if everyone held their breath. A subtle but noticeable tension. Like at a circus just before a dangerous trick was going to be attempted. The crowd wasn’t eager to see the royal couple—it was something else. Something closer to nervousness.
The trumpeters finished, lowered their horns in practiced precision, and stepped back to the wall. A man in a long golden coat now emerged and strode to the balustrade. His hands were hidden into his wide sleeves. His arrival was greeted with polite applause from the crowd—not hostile or unwelcome, but not warm either. More indifferent. His gaunt face s
urveyed the masses with equal detachment.
“Lord Chancellor Abazel,” Dax murmured to him.
Abazel made a few announcements about local policies that didn’t mean anything to Hunter. The crowd muttered to each other about them, but they didn’t stir any noticeable reaction either way. Then, “The king will have a few words today, and once His Royal Majesty has concluded his announcements, he has graciously decided to bestow favors up his faithful subjects.”
This received a larger reaction from the gathering. People cheered and applauded. Like Dax had said, it was why they had come.
“I present His Majesty, King Ruzad, and Her Majesty, Queen Jenora.” The chancellor made a small bow, spun on his heel, and left the balcony. The trumpeters lifted their instruments to their mouths again and broadcast the arrival of the royal couple.
The applause level rose, but Hunter felt it was a bit forced. People cheered, but it seemed almost polite and didn’t carry any measurable enthusiasm.
Hunter felt Dax’s eyes on him. He was watching him, waiting for something.
King Ruzad traveled out to the balcony first, smiling and waving. He was a burly man, strong if round in the middle. He had a heavy black beard and eyebrows to match. A gold crown rested upon his head. His smile seemed warm, but his eyes didn’t seem to see anyone. The action felt rehearsed.
Behind him, Queen Jenora strolled out on the balcony. She glided to the balustrade and pressed her palms to the stone. A sudden gust caught her silken red gown and the fabric billowed outward. Her hair was pulled up, braided and elegantly twisted atop her head, and a jeweled circlet surrounded it. She didn’t wave and barely smiled. She eyed the audience with a cool scrutiny.
Hunter was dimly aware of this heart thumping wildly and the sickening pain in his gut. For a long time, he could only stare up at her.
“This… this isn’t possible,” he said.
He turned to Dax, who was watching him closely with narrow eyes. “Tell me.”
Hunter shook his head. “No. Something’s not right.”
Dax grabbed Hunter’s arm. “I need to hear you say it.”
“That’s my mother.”
13
HUNTER WAS only dimly aware of Dax grabbing him under his arm and dragging him into motion. He allowed himself to be led back through the crowd, staggering along in a daze, looking over his shoulder again and again at the woman standing on the balcony. His mother. The king was speaking to the crowd, but Hunter couldn’t make sense of the words. His mind whirled, and his heart ached at the sight of her.
They broke from the thinning outer perimeter. Dax released his arm. “Stay with me,” he said. He pressed on without looking back, as always, expecting Hunter to follow. For a moment, Hunter was tempted to ignore him and push back into the crowd again for a closer look. It had to be a mistake. That couldn’t be her. But he forced himself to pull away.
At the edge of square, the king’s voice had faded to a dull drone, and as they rounded the temple, the sound was lost entirely. Hunter slowed one last time to glance back at the distant balcony. They were too distant now for him to make out any details other than her standing at his side with hands clasped at her waist. At this distance, he could almost pretend it wasn’t her.
But it wasn’t her, he told himself.
It couldn’t be. The woman standing on that balcony couldn’t have been thirty years old. His mother died at his side at fifty-eight. And his mother was warm, friendly, and more generous of herself than anyone he’d ever known. The woman on the balcony was aloof. Cold. Whoever she was, that wasn’t his mother.
But the resemblance made his insides twist into knots.
There were only a few pictures of her when she was that young. None of her in her youth or childhood—at least none that he’d ever seen. One photo was his favorite, one he felt captured her the best. It was tattered and bent from years of being carried around in his pocket or backpack. His mother, seated on an old kitchen chair, was cradling a small bundle against her breast. Hunter’s father stood behind her. Hands resting on her shoulders, he leaned around to one side and gazed down at her small bundle. They both were smiling. And even though Hunter’s face wasn’t visible in the picture, he always imagined that he was smiling too.
A family. For a time.
They crossed back over the now empty bridge and plunged back into the dense city. Dax led the way. The two of them didn’t speak as they zigzagged through a network of narrow streets. Hunter’s surroundings were an inconsequential blur. All he saw was the image of his mother standing on the balcony. He stumbled along trying to get his head around what he’d seen.
Seeing her again, young and alive, was more excruciating than he could have imagined. He thought he’d healed. Believed he’d moved on. But the wound was open again as if no time had passed. He felt his insides were split and bleeding. It was too cruel, and rage flared throughout his body.
“You knew,” he said.
Dax slowed his pace. “I needed to be certain.”
“You couldn’t have warned me. Prepared me for what I was going to see.”
Dax’s head was half turned. He nodded. “I know.”
Staring at Dax’s back as he walked away from him, Hunter found the urge to tackle him to the street, pound him for what he’d just done. For one bright moment, he’d believed it was her. Believed he could be reunited with her. But in an instant, the hope evaporated, and a cold void swelled where his heart should be.
Instead, Hunter grabbed Dax’s arm and yanked him to a halt. “That wasn’t her. That wasn’t my mother.” His jaw was set, and he could feel the heat pulsing from his cheeks and forehead. His eyes twitched. Whatever this bullshit game was, it wasn’t fair. And it was cruel.
“Can you be sure?”
“I was with her when she died.” He’d watched as she took her final breath and the life left her. The moment was etched indelibly into his brain. He was there—and it was real. More real than anything he’d ever experienced. His mother had lost her fight and was gone.
He had no idea who that woman was, but when she came to the balustrade and rested her hands on its edge, he saw her hands. He saw her fingers curl against the stone. All her fingers.
His real mother was missing half her left hand.
“I don’t know what kind of bullshit game you’re playing at,” Hunter growled. “But that wasn’t her.”
Dax met Hunter’s eyes with a cool, unreadable expression. “I believe you. It wasn’t her.”
The response jarred Hunter a moment. “So… so, this was some test?”
Dax didn’t respond, but his lips tightened. He was keeping something from him. Hunter clenched and unclenched his hands. “What the fuck is going on, Dax?”
“I’ll explain when….” He paused. A man was approaching, pushing a wheelbarrow full of bricks.
“Fuck that. You dumped this on me and expect me to wait? No. Who was that up there?” Hunter’s voice was rising. People were slowing to listen, and a man craned his neck around a fruit stall to catch a glimpse of what was happening.
Dax shoved him into the alcove of a building with surprising ease—but then, stupefied as he was, Hunter wasn’t capable of putting up much of a fight. Dax leaned in and dropped his voice. “We don’t know. All we know is she’s an imposter.”
“An imposter. There’s someone pretending to be my mother from thirty years ago?”
“Thirty years from your perspective,” Dax said. “Here it’s only been months. Perhaps a year. We can’t be certain.”
“A matter of…?” In a flash, Hunter understood. “Hold on. Are you suggesting my mother is from here?”
Dax didn’t reply, but held his cool and unblinking gaze on Hunter.
“Don’t be stupid. My mother grew up in a small town in northern Wisconsin.”
“That may be what she told you.”
Hunter ran his fingers through his hair. “That doesn’t make any sense. There has to be some mistake.”
Dax shook his head. “There is no mistake.”
Hunter shook his head. “Next you’re going to tell me she was the fucking queen.”
Dax glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “Too dangerous to have this conversation on the street.” He stepped out of the alcove and marched on. “If you want more answers, you’ll have to follow me.”
FISTS CLENCHED, he followed close behind Dax, staring at his boot heels and the stones in the road. The streets around him fell away into an irrelevant haze, unnoticed. He was too angry. Too confused. The bustling cacophony of the city was nothing more than a distant hum.
It was all too much for his brain to process, and he felt himself shutting down. Pain spiked behind his right eye. It couldn’t be true. His mother couldn’t have come from here—it didn’t make sense. But as he sifted through memories of life with her, looking for any shard of evidence that would prove Dax wrong, they only served to confirm it. Why had she never spoken of her childhood? She never mentioned anything about her time at school and never spoke of family. Hunter had never met a single grandparent or uncle or cousin from her side. And she had odd gaps in her knowledge of the world. It always mystified him how she could have gotten through life not knowing some of the most rudimentary details of how things worked.
He felt lied to. Betrayed. Felt he didn’t even know who his mother really was now. How could she have kept this from him?
He rose out of his sulk after a time to find the neighborhood had taken a decidedly different turn. Filth lined the gutters, and cobbles were missing from the street. The buildings were neglected and dilapidated; the layers of dirty plaster that covered the bricks were cracked and crumpling. Most of them looked abandoned, but a few people leaned out on windowsills and watched them pass with narrow and suspicious gazes.
Dax made an unannounced shift and ducked into the narrow gangway between two buildings. The alley felt like a deep gully, the sky a narrow band of blue overhead. They pushed through an iron gate and descended a rough staircase of cut flagstone, sinking into deeper shadows. The air was cooler here and smelled ripe with piss. The stairs ended at a heavy plank door, and Dax thumped the side of his fist against the wood.