by David Estes
According to city gossip, the island was surrounded by an immense wall. Victims were dropped over the sides. They should die from such a fall, but the plague wouldn’t let them. The plague held no mercy, only pain and torture to the very end. Roan must’ve been dropped, too, stumbling feverishly across the terrain to where he ended up. If not for the power of his own tattooya, he’d probably already be too far gone.
Roan wheeled about in a circle—a dark shape surrounded him, rising up toward the red, green, and gold stars. The wall is real, Roan thought. Which might mean the other obstacle was real, too, but he chose not to think too hard about that. Not yet. The wall was first, then whatever came next.
Although he could sense the plague all around him, hanging thickly in the fetid air, Roan did not have the plague. Not anymore. He’d used his curse to take care of that little problem.
Unfortunately, healing himself had left him feeling drained and ashamed. All of these people were in need of what he could offer, and he selfishly chose to help himself. But there were too many to help. Even if he wanted to, he would collapse from exhaustion before he could heal them all. And then he would die.
He shook his head, trying to focus. His legs felt like lead, but he forced them forward, toward a part of the ground that seemed less littered with bodies.
Dark shapes stumbled across the open terrain, the living dead wandering without purpose.
What felt like hours later, Roan reached the wall, which appeared to stretch all the way to the heavens. All along the base of the wall were bodies in various stages of decay. They formed a pyramid, not unlike the enormous pyramids of Calypso, except constructed of flesh and bone rather than stone and mortar. At its apex, the ramp reached nearly halfway to the wall’s summit.
Despite its morbid nature, the human pyramid strategy was an interesting one. Plague victims continued to flock toward the wall, climbing the bodies, eventually succumbing to the disease at the top, becoming new building blocks for future victims to climb. For those afflicted with the plague, climbing the wall would be next to impossible, but perhaps for Roan, who still had his strength…
Roan started his ascent, using his hands to steady himself on the unbalanced terrain. His power flared up each time the plague attempted to infiltrate his body, holding the disease at bay. Other climbers noticed his progress, and tried to grab him, their mouths opening to reveal toothless maws. He knocked their disease-weakened arms away and fought onward.
When Roan reached the top of the human pyramid, he was exhausted, his knees trembling, his back sore. Even his bones felt weary, the constant use of his power sapping them of all strength.
Three plague victims were trying to grasp the stone, but their dark skin was slippery with sweat from the fever burning through their bodies. Hearing Roan’s approach, they turned, their lips contorted with pain. “Help me,” one said, his teeth chattering. “Please,” said another. “Please.” The third one only reached blindly for Roan; her eyes were milky and unseeing.
“I’m sorry,” Roan said, trying to dodge around them.
The largest one, a man who might’ve once been as tall as Roan before the plague hunched his back and bent his legs, moved far quicker than Roan thought possible. Like him, he might’ve been a new arrival, not yet fully broken. He grabbed Roan around the neck and slammed him against the wall, his breaths coming hot and quick. Spit flew from his mouth as he demanded, “Give me a boost, boy!”
Roan could feel the plague trying to squirm inside him, the force of his tattooya fighting back valiantly. His vision began to blur from the effort. He had the sudden desire to stop fighting, to give in to the disease, to embrace the darkness and relief it would eventually bring.
His legs wobbled. His heart stuttered. His breath clawed in and out of his throat with ragged gasps.
And then he remembered his mother. Not her, exactly, for he couldn’t remember anything about her. Only what his guardian had told him about her, how strong and good she was. How she’d sacrificed everything so he could live.
Could he really throw away her sacrifice so easily?
He couldn’t and he wouldn’t. “I will help you,” he choked out, feeling the sting of the lie in his throat, even as the man released his grip.
The second he was free, he used the wall for leverage and kicked out, knocking the man down the human hill. He smashed into the blind woman, sending her flying as well. The third victim tripped of his own accord, screaming in pain.
Roan’s stomach hurt from what he had done, but he forced himself to turn back toward the wall.
He had two choices, die or climb, and that was no choice for a man like Roan.
Mustering what strength he had left, he raised his arms and began to climb.
Thankfully, the wall was hastily constructed and eroded by steady ocean winds, and he had no difficulty finding hand and footholds. Still, with his last reserves nearly depleted, the biting wind threatened to tear him from the wall with each inch he gained. Every time he stared up, the apex seemed farther and farther away, an unreachable goal.
He refused to look down at all the poor souls he had abandoned.
He began to growl with each step up, his feet aching, his hands cracked and bleeding from gripping the rough stone. He was no longer capable of healing himself.
But then, like a rocky coastline disappearing into the sea, the wall ended. He sprawled on the broad windswept surface, unable to hold back a sudden burst of laughter. His chest rose and fell. His hands dripped blood. His muscles spasmed and cramped.
And, despite the gnawing hunger he suddenly felt in the pit of his stomach, Roan drifted off into a deep sleep.
Beneath him, just outside the island’s walls, the slumbering dragon’s chains rattled as it began to stir.
Two
The Northern Kingdom, Castle Hill
Annise Gäric
Annise never asked to be a princess.
And yet, no matter how much she wished for a different life, she couldn’t change anything. She couldn’t change the dark stares of the commoners on her as she watched the finest knights of the kingdom do battle, nor the barricade of guards that surrounded the royal family because of the constant threat of assassination. She couldn’t change her face, which was all Gäric with her strong jaw, dimpled chin, and steely gray eyes. The look suited her older brother, Arch, just fine, but not her. Her body was even worse, with too-small bosoms and exceptionally wide hips. Her arms and legs were strong, muscled from spending her days fighting with the lordlings in the training yard, but that didn’t stop the colorful nicknames invented by her peers. She’d heard them all: Princess Pear; the Pin-Bodied Princess; Princess Pound-Cake.
Try as she did to ignore them, the words stung each time she heard them.
Now, Annise tried to focus on the tourney, which had moved on from archery to everyone’s favorite event—the joust. Well, everyone’s favorite except Annise’s. Something about the joust was too practiced, too methodical. The event had no feeling or passion. Every time a knight was unhorsed, it felt cold, just like the never ending winter in Castle Hill.
Hooves pounded the frozen earth. The knights positioned their lances, holding them steady. Wood splintered, metal armor shrieked. Both knights were hit, toppling from their mounts and landing hard. They got up and wrestled in the snow, much to the raucous crowd’s delight.
Annise looked away, checking the lineup to see who was next. A white steed pranced forward gracefully. Her brother lifted his faceplate and flashed the brilliant smile that made the girls’ squeal with delight. At sixteen, he was the only Gäric who the people seemed to forgive despite their father’s constant acts of violence. He had charisma, while Annise only had knotted black curls and an impressive hooked punch that could knock even the toughest lordlings off their feet.
Much to their father’s dismay, Arch had tried to teach her to joust on several occasions. They’d conducted the lessons in private, far from the laughter of the castle servants. She was d
readful. Riding had never been her strong suit, but that was only the beginning of the trouble. Getting the unbalanced lance up while attempting to steer her horse in a straight line had proven to be a task as monumentally difficult for Annise as faking a smile to the commoners.
She had given up after only three lessons.
While the two brawlers were cleared from the field, Arch Gäric blew kisses to his adoring fans before dropping his faceplate with a clank. He charged his opponent, his silver shield flashing with each stride.
Compared to Arch, his opponent looked awkward and clumsy, struggling to get his lance up in time. Too late.
Arch speared his own lance into the knight, unhorsing him so violently he did a backflip, landing with a thump.
The crowd cheered and Arch celebrated with them as the unconscious knight was dragged away amidst jeers. Annise closed her eyes and wished it was she they adored.
When she opened her eyes again, she found her mother’s stare boring into her. Her mother was everything she was not—beautiful and confident. Her golden hair flowed down her back, braided in three places in the style of the western kingdom. Her features were delicate and soft, befitting a princess of the west rather than a queen of the north. Technically, Sabria Loren Gäric was both. Once a princess of the west, now a queen of the north, her hand given to Annise’s father, Wolfric Gäric, as part of a marriage alliance that lasted all of two years before being shattered by war once more.
Now Queen Gäric was a captive wife, and she seemed to blame her daughter as much as anyone, though Annise had barely been born when her father attacked the west and was named Dread King of the North, a title he seemed to relish more and more with each passing day.
Annise looked away from her mother, unable to hold her crystal blue stare any longer. While the joust continued, she gazed across Frozen Lake, which seemed to stretch into eternity, all the way to the edge of the Hinterlands, the white sun transforming the ice to gold. She dreamed of leaving the castle, walking across Frozen Lake, disappearing into the unexplored territory forever.
Annise shook her head and snapped out of her revelry when the crowd cheered once more. The joust was over. Surprise, surprise—Arch had won.
Down the line of royals, she noticed her Aunt Zelda, a thickset woman who, like Annise, was all Gäric in terms of physical appearance. She’d seen her strange aunt on multiple occasions as a child, but as the years wore on and the king grew more and more violent, Lady Zelda had rarely shown up at court, becoming the butt of many a jape in the castle, earning herself the label of family recluse. It was odd to see her now, almost like a mirage in the snow, when she hadn’t seen her aunt in years.
Was it her imagination, or had her aunt just shared a glance with her mother? Annise’s eyes darted between the two women, but if they’d made eye contact, it was fleeting. Now both of them were staring without expression at the field below.
Annise scanned the crowd. Despite their poverty and the biting cold, there was a sense of excitement buzzing through the audience. It was like Arch’s victory had given them hope. She spotted a young boy no more than nine years old sitting in the snow. His body was shrunken and thin, and his skin was of a ghostly pallor, but he still managed to smile from ear to ear. He was clearly ill. By Annise’s reckoning, he wouldn’t last through another winter. A sharp pain lanced through her ribs as she was reminded of a childhood friend who’d been stricken by a similar ailment.
Tarin.
He’d been her best friend.
He’d died before his ninth name day.
To this day, Annise still missed Tarin.
It was strange to Annise, the way life seemed to amble along sometimes, slow and unsteady, the days sliding past with all the speed of a spring snail; and other times moving like a falling scythe, slashing through everything in its path. Tarin had been the latter. One day he was a vibrant, energetic boy, running and wrestling and playing with Annise. Only days later he was gone. His body had been so overcome by the disease that his day of mourning required a closed casket. Annise hadn’t just lost a friend on that day—she’d lost a piece of her soul.
She blinked away the memory and the dull, lingering pain. Because, finally, it was time for her favorite event, and she couldn’t hold back a very real smile. She glanced over to see if her mother had noticed, but the queen was gone. Annise knew slipping away during the penultimate point in the tourney would bring her father’s wrath later on, and she feared for her mother, who didn’t seem to care anymore. Her mother’s actions were not unusual, not lately. It seemed to Annise that, more and more, the queen was behaving recklessly. Usually it meant a few days away from court to allow the bruises to heal.
At the same moment, she noticed Aunt Zelda had departed, too.
A coincidence, she thought. As far as she knew, the two women hadn’t spoken in years.
She tried not to think about it as the field was cleared for the final event, the melee. Annise loved the melee. It was an event of true strength and valor, and only the most gallant of knights would come out victorious. She dreamed of marching onto the field of battle, armed with sword and strength, a test of skill or brawn, or, in some cases, both.
Annise wasn’t known for her skill, but she’d bested Arch on multiple occasions with both sword and fist using sheer brute strength as her true weapon of choice. She smiled at the memories, especially because of how angry her father had been when he found out she’d shamed the king-to-be on the training grounds.
Annise smirked as Arch trotted up to take a seat—he, of course, wouldn’t compete in the melee.
“Scared of getting your pretty hands dirty?” Annise asked innocently.
“I don’t see you down there,” he retorted.
Annise sighed. She would if she could. Other than the rare she-knight, women were disallowed from the tourney entirely.
“Sorry,” Arch said, realizing his mistake. “Anyway, I just won the joust.”
“Really? I must’ve missed it,” Annise joked.
“They cheered louder than ever before.”
“And blew you kisses and displayed their bosoms and offered themselves up for your spawn.”
“I think you mean heirs,” Arch said, laughing. “They aren’t as bad as you think. Your sharp tongue could learn some manners from my admirers.”
“Is that what you call your harem these days?”
“At least they’re nice,” Arch said, but he was still smiling.
“Then why don’t you sit with them.” Annise knew she was being mean, but she didn’t care.
“I would, but then you’d have no one to sit with you,” Arch joked, bumping her as he sat down.
Annise squirmed away, refusing to be charmed by her brother the way everyone else was. “Quiet. It’s about to start.”
Their father stood on the raised platform. He was a large man, tall and strong, his face weathered by cold and storm and battle. He wore a long black robe adorned with the northern sigil, a cracked-but-never-broken golden shield. Annise hated that she could see her own features in his face.
Once he’d been nothing but a prince, the second in the line of northern succession. But then his brother, Helmuth, who had been born with a lame foot, was skipped over by Annise’s grandfather, leaving the throne open for her father. Annise had never known her uncle Helmuth, who most people referred to only as the Maimed Prince, as he’d run away from Castle Hill before she’d been born, leaving only a note promising to return seeking vengeance one day. He hadn’t been heard from since, and most had long forgotten about him.
Behind the king was his prized pet, the Ice Lord, a tall thin man with razor-sharp features that reminded Annise of a cold blue blade. He was currently the only known northerner bearing a skinmark—in his case, an icy symbol that gave him his power.
The crowd didn’t boo, but they didn’t cheer either. An awkward wave of applause swept across the commoners. “Has this tournament entertained you?” King Gäric asked. Something about the way he
said it sent icicles up Annise’s spine. She’d heard enough of her father’s speeches to know when he was baiting his people. The Dread King had earned his title a hundred times over, just as her grandfather had earned his own title as the Undefeated King, with his string of dauntless victories over their enemies. She wondered what nickname Arch would bear when he was king. The Boastful King, she thought with a smile.
The crowd drew silent—they could sense the change in mood too.
“No? Have you learned nothing? I have vowed time and time again to snuff out traitors like the pools of dripping wax that they are, and yet treason seems to spring up like mounds of horse dirt.” The king’s booming voice echoed across the snowfields. The crowd didn’t dare to move, or even breathe.
Annise’s fingernails dug into her palms.
“I demand obedience, or you shall have death! Traitors will be punished! The streets will run red with guilty blood on this very night! So yes, enjoy the melee. Be entertained, for tonight I shall be entertained by my enemies’ screams!”
King Gäric slammed his fist down on the balustrade and several icicles broke off, dropping like executioner’s scythes, barely missing a young guardsman who was forced to dodge out of the way. His speech finished, Annise’s father stormed off, likely to find her absent mother.
“All hail the Dread King of the North,” Arch whispered under his breath. Annise was pretty sure he was joking. He might be the golden boy of the kingdom, but she knew he was every bit as scared of their father as she was.
The Ice Lord stepped forward to take his place as tourney master. He stroked his white goatee with long-nailed fingers.
Some members of the crowd attempted to leave the area, but armed soldiers blocked their path. With no other choice, the audience pressed closer to the barrier, watching as the melee participants gathered on the hard-packed snowfield.