by David Estes
“What are they?” Roan asked, watching the silent flyers.
“Ore hawks,” Gareth said. “Don’t get too close to them. They have a fondness for human scalps, and their beaks are even sharper than their talons.”
The prince turned away before Roan could read his expression to tell if he was serious.
The road was wide and well kept, and as their horses marched through the forest, silvery flowers grew and faded before them.
“This is…impossible,” Roan said. “Metal doesn’t…grow.”
“Do your eyes deceive you then?” a voice said. It wasn’t the prince this time, but Gwendolyn Storm, who was waiting for them beside an enormous tree completely encased in iron. The forest dweller had her hood thrown back, her cat-like eyes boring into Roan.
Roan did his best to appear unsurprised that she’d addressed him. “Perhaps it is a dream,” he said, dismounting.
Gwendolyn snapped a torch from a nearby sconce. In the moment she brought it near her face, something flashed on her cheek. A symbol of some kind, almost like an X but coming to squares rather than points. She thrust the torch at Roan, and the mark disappeared.
A tattooya, Roan realized. She’s marked. Like me. Roan wondered what her mark meant—what power it gave her.
“If you are dreaming, then plunge your hand into the flames. It shall not hurt.” There was a twinkle in Gwendolyn’s eyes, and Roan couldn’t tell whether it was because she wanted to watch him burn himself—probably—or if she was merely playing with him like a cat pawing at a trapped mouse—also a distinct possibility.
He’d already felt the pain of all-consuming dragonfire, an agony a thousand times worse than this measly torch, but Roan knew he’d be sorely tempted to heal his burnt hand in front of them. And then his greatest secret would be bared for all to see. As he stared at the flames, he was thankful one of the prince’s men had given him a fresh shirt to wear, hiding the lifemark on his chest beneath thick folds of fabric.
“I will burn myself if you will do the same,” Roan said.
Gwendolyn blinked.
Behind Roan, Prince Gareth chuckled. “This should be entertaining,” he said.
Roan wondered what he meant, but already Gwendolyn had placed the torch back in its fixture on the tree. A moment later she’d unsheathed a sword half as tall as her. Before Roan’s eyes the sword transformed, the metal curling and twisting, losing its sharp edges.
Gwendolyn smiled, and Roan couldn’t help but to smile back, transfixed.
A moment later he was flat on his back and his entire body felt bruised. She’d moved so fast he’d barely been able to track her with his eyes, much less defend himself. Dazed, he sat up to find her leaning casually against the iron tree.
With that, she mounted her horse and left Roan to nurse his wounds.
Prince Gareth placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, friend, it’s happened to the best of us, myself included. Now come, it’s time for you to meet the king.”
As they traveled along the wide roads through Ironwood, Prince Gareth never seemed to tire of talking about the land of his ancestors. As they walked and talked, Roan slowly, surreptitiously, healed the bruises caused by Gwendolyn’s attack.
“In the west they say we conquered the east,” Gareth said.
Roan had been told exactly the same thing. In the history he’d been given, the early Crimean settlers who moved eastwards had fought great battles against the natives before claiming the land for their own. Eventually they declared independence from the west, which began the East-West War, an ongoing battle that had raged for hundreds of years.
“You’re saying the westerners are lying?” Roan scoffed.
“They weren’t here. Just because they would’ve ridden to the east with war cries and swords doesn’t mean we would. In reality, the east conquered us. My forefathers were beguiled by the beauty of this place, and of the forest dwellers who inhabited it. They learned to live with the Orians, rather than against them. Of course, there were those on both sides who caused trouble, and there was occasional bloodshed, but we’ve had peace since the year 150, when our people began to interbond with the foresters.”
“Interbond?”
“Bonding is what the Orians call marriage. Most of us have some percentage of Orian in us these days.”
“What about Gwendolyn Storm?” Roan asked. She’d moved like the wind. And she was fatemarked.
“Give it up, lad. Forget about her. It’ll only bring you pain and us laughs.” Although the prince tried to keep his tone light, Roan could feel a sharp spike of anger in it. Why would that be? Roan wondered. Does the prince have a history with the Orian woman?
“I’m not interested in her like that,” Roan said quickly. Why would he want someone who hated him? Because she’s beautiful, for one, he thought. Just like you. He stifled the thoughts.
“Then you are not a man.”
Roan chose to ignore the quip, mostly because it implied the prince would likely never have interest in him. “But she is of mixed heritage?” he pressed.
“Actually she’s one of the few who are descended from a single culture line. She’s full forester. Those like her tend to stick to their own kind, which is why you need to forget about her.”
The road curved broadly, the metallic trees standing straight and solid on either side, like sentinels. Metal vines grew down from above, curling around Roan’s arms and legs, squeezing and releasing.
Roan flinched visibly, and the prince winked at him. “They’re only checking you out. Deciding whether you’re a threat.”
“And if I am?”
“You’re not.” The prince laughed loudly.
“But what if?”
“They’ll wrap around your neck and choke the life out of you,” Gareth said casually. He spurred his horse on, and the rest of the men followed behind.
The metal vines lingered on Roan’s skin for a few moments longer, before slipping away and rising toward the sky. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, wondering whether or not he was a threat to the east. Probably not, he decided. I’m not even supposed to be here.
Up ahead, Gwendolyn Storm was stopped in the center of the path, waiting. She didn’t look at them, instead gazing upon a new part of the forest, different than anything Roan had seen so far.
“The Iron City,” Gareth said. “My home. Welcome to Ferria.”
Roan stared in awe. If the forest was impossible, Ferria was whatever came after impossible. Unlike Calypso, where everything was stone and sand and dust, the eastern stronghold was iron intermingled with nature. Roan would’ve expected an iron city to be cold and hard, but this city was anything but. Each structure was a work of art, the metal forming around enormous trees in beautifully unique ways that even the west’s best smiths would find difficult to imitate if they had a hundred years to try. Walls were carved with depictions of tree and critter, sword and shield, banner and horse. The crossed swords of the eastern sigil were displayed on each building, etched to perfection.
Dwellings were built within hollowed out trees, so large around that a hundred men could stand arm to arm and still not complete a full circle. Each door and window was independently designed as well, some appearing as wisps of smoke and others as falling leaves. Most of the buildings had spires protruding at odd angles, piercing the gray fabric of the sky, giving them a royal feel, as if Roan were approaching a mystical castle.
As they entered the forest city, many of the townsfolk stopped to gaze at them. Each of them wore metal of some kind, all of it finely crafted. There was a man with a red-painted metal vest with long thin tail feathers. A woman had an iron hat with tiny metallic flowers sprouting from the sides. Another waved as they passed, his hands hidden by metal gloves that seemed almost a part of him.
The prince greeted each person in kind, many of them personally. “Ho, Piper Johns! How are the fish biting?” he said to a man with a metal rod and hook. To another: “Aye, Jam Pepper, you are looking vibrant
on this gray afternoon.” No one seemed to fear him the way the monarchs of the south were feared. Is it an act or is it real? Roan wondered.
Already he’d seen the way Gwendolyn was treated. She made no effort to hide her mark, and, according to the prince, she was free to come and go as she pleased.
For one quarter of one moment, Roan wondered whether this was a place where he could be happy, where he wouldn’t have to hide his true self anymore. Where his gift could help rather than hurt those around him.
In the next three-quarters of that same moment, a hundred contradictions presented themselves, and Roan knew he was deluding himself. He was the last person who could find peace in the east.
At least a furlong into the city there was a great marketplace, built within a tree as wide as the Southron pyramids. They passed stands billowing aromatic smoke bearing the scent of broiled hen, smoked trout, and lamb stew, amongst others. One stand even had an entire wild boar roasting over an open fire, the spit turning slowly, fat sizzling and dripping into the flames while street urchins stared longingly at the meat. Roan’s stomach turned at the sight of the cooking flesh.
At another stand, children were clamoring at the front, flipping iron coins to the seller and claiming tubs of plum pudding.
“You can eat when you’re dead,” the prince said, mistaking Roan’s interest in the food sellers for hunger. For once, Gareth didn’t smile, leaving Roan to wonder whether he was joking. He suspected not. If convicted as a spy, the king would have no choice but to have him executed.
But the threat of death had been Roan’s companion for some time, and he did not fear it the way he used to. He swallowed the thought away and went back to gazing around the marketplace. Though the non-meat food was of significant interest to him, the metal workers were what stole most of his attention. They reminded him of Gwendolyn, with their angled faces and strange attire. Each of them were covered from head to toe in metal, which seemed to mold to their bodies, regardless of height, weight, or shape. He’d never seen craftsmanship the likes of what they sold. There were swords that should’ve been on display rather than used as weapons, shields so pristine they appeared as precious as gemstones shimmering in the daylight, and armor fit for royalty hanging on stands meant to attract normal people.
They stopped at one such stand, and Gwendolyn hailed the owner. A man emerged— Well, Roan thought it was a man, but it was hard to tell. His skin was rough and bark-like, almost like that of a tree. Not just his hands, which ended in stumpy fingers, but the rest of him, too, his face flat and grotesque, his eyes as black as briskets of coal in sunken craters of mottled flesh. There were only three or four spots of pink flesh poking through, including one atop his hairless brown scalp.
“Bark,” Gwendolyn said, flashing a smile so lovely that Roan knew it was her real smile, not the fake one she’d offered him earlier just before she knocked him flat on his back. They embraced, and it looked as unusual as if she’d hugged a tree.
“How were your travels, my hero?” the man—Bark—asked. “You’ve had adventures, I trust.” His voice was a watery gurgle, and Roan had to concentrate to understand him.
“Plenty. I’ll tell you all about them soon enough. But first, business. The three princes require new armor and a dozen new weapons. Cost is no issue.”
“Of course. For you, anything.”
The prince said, “And for me?”
“I do it for her, not you,” Bark said.
The prince chuckled and mouthed beguiled to Roan. Roan shook his head. Insulting royalty in Calypso would earn you a quick trip to the fighting pits if you were lucky; if you weren’t so fortunate, you’d be given the opportunity to have your head separated from your neck.
“Meet me at the iron gates once you’ve concluded business this evening,” Gwendolyn went on. “We’ll work out the details.”
“As you wish, my hero,” Bark said, kissing her hand with lips that must’ve been as rough as the backside of stone.
She cupped his cheek for a moment and then mounted up, leading them further into the city. As they trotted along, she targeted Roan with a sly smile and a devilish look.
“Bark, huh?” Roan said to Gareth.
“She’s always treated him better than the rest of us.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because he is better,” the prince said, his lip curling.
Something Bark said to Gwendolyn occurred to Roan. “He called her his ‘hero’.”
“Is that supposed to be a question?”
“He said it twice. Why?”
“You think too much,” the prince said.
Roan daydreamed of the tethers breaking from his hands so he could knock the smile off the prince’s beautiful lips.
Maybe his intentions were written all over his face, because his thoughts only made the prince smile broader. “You’re as sensitive as an unflowered maiden,” Gareth said. “I meant no offense, only that sometimes the answer is all too obvious.”
Roan thought about it, realizing his stupidity. “She saved Bark’s life.”
Gareth nodded. “Once. Now he would retrieve both of the moons for her, if she asked.”
“What did she do?”
The prince waved away the question. “Ask him. Or better yet, ask her—that would prove immensely amusing. Now cease with your incessant questions. The iron gate approaches.”
Roan turned his attention forward, where a metal wall near as tall as the dragons of Plague Island stood, constructed between natural tree pillars. The metal seemed liquid, rippling just beneath the surface, its face in constant motion. An enormous iron gate bearing the royal sigil blocked the way forward, protected by a retinue of royal guardsmen. Each man must’ve stood seven feet tall, because even on his toes Roan knew he’d have to angle his head to look any of them in the eye. Standing shoulder to shoulder in full battle armor, they almost looked like a miniature version of the wall they protected.
In the dead center of their formation was an even larger man, who wore a pendant on a long linked chain around his neck. Roan squinted, and was able to make out the design of an armored fist.
“They say he’s descended from the mountain men of the north,” Gareth said.
“Who?”
“Beorn Stonesledge. The giant you’re staring at. By the way, he doesn’t like when people stare at him. Especially strangers.”
Roan realized the massive guardsman’s eyes were narrowed and he was looking right back at him. Roan averted his eyes, pretending to study a speck of dirt on his boot. The prince chortled loudly.
“What is that symbol he bears?” Roan asked. “The one around his neck.”
“The ironmark,” Gareth said. “It’s an imitation of his skinmark. I’ve seen him use it, too. His foes would’ve been better off facing one of those dragons you claim to have survived.”
It took all of Roan’s strength to keep his expression neutral. Another tattooya? And again, like Gwendolyn Storm, this man wore his openly, without fear, dangling the symbol of his power around his neck. The very concept was foreign to him.
“Remind me never to challenge him to a grapple then,” Roan said, trying to make light of the situation.
“I doubt if you’ll ever get the chance anyway,” the prince said, once more dancing his horse away and leaving Roan to ponder the subtle threat.
The guardsmen cleared a path for the prince and his men, while Gwendolyn dropped back to escort Roan through the arched gates, which seemed to liquefy and flow into the walls on either side. Inside was a huge courtyard, which curved away in both directions. As soon as the royal convoy was inside, liquid ore poured out from either side of the wall and hardened back into the enormous iron doors. Roan blinked, amazed. “How does that work?” he asked.
Gwen said, “My people channel the ore.”
“How?”
She shrugged, managing to make even such a common gesture look graceful. “We just do. I can’t explain it in a way you will understand. Ore-chan
neling isn’t something that can be learned. It’s either in you, or not.” Without another word, she strode away, following the curve of the wall.
Roan scanned his surroundings, which were abuzz with activity, not unlike the rest of the city. To one side troops wearing light armor were being trained in hand-to-hand combat, while another platoon was engaged in target practice, the twang of their bows punctuated by satisfying thwacks as their arrows entered straw dummies. On the opposite side, horses were being watered, rubbed down, and fed. The most interesting thing about the courtyard, however, was that not a single tree had been felled to construct it. Instead, fixtures had been built amongst the nature, almost allowing the forest to guide the construction.
A group of men and women paused in their duties to tend to the prince’s horses as they dismounted. “Thank you,” Gareth said, handing over his reins.
“This is some setup you have here,” Roan said.
“This is nothing,” Gareth said, raising his arms over his head so a soldier woman could remove his chest plate. Soon he was wearing only a green shirt, brown britches, and his boots. For a moment, Roan wondered what he looked like beneath the fabric. He shook away the thought—this man, regardless of how handsome, wants to see you executed, he reminded himself.
“Wait until you see the rest,” Gareth continued. There was something in the prince’s eyes that gave Roan pause. Something clicked, a truth he’d been missing from the moment they entered Ironwood. They hadn’t blindfolded him once during the trip. They were allowing him to see everything, including the inside of the castle. If they truly believed he was a spy, they wouldn’t be so careless unless…