by David Estes
Ennis practically fell inside. “Princess! Are you—are you hurt? I heard a loud sound.” He scanned the room, immediately noticing the destroyed mirror.
Rhea felt anger and fury and something darker throbbing inside of her—something she never knew she had. But she held all of that back and said with a meek whimper, “I’m sorry—I couldn’t—I couldn’t look at—I didn’t want to see…” She covered her face with her hands and squeezed tears from her eyes. This time, it was her choice to cry, for her own purposes and not out of sorrow.
“Oh, Rhea. Oh, Wrath,” Ennis said. “You need not worry. Your chambermaid will see to the mess. The mirror will not be replaced.”
“Thank you, cousin,” Rhea said. “For everything.”
He nodded, his eyes full of pity. She almost felt bad deceiving him. Then again, he’d let her be taken away by the furia just like everyone else. “Shall I leave you?”
“No,” she said. “Wrath, I’m a blubbering mess. Wait one moment.” Rhea retrieved a handkerchief and used it to wipe away her tears and clear her nose. She selected a pale blue hat with a matching veil, which she draped over her face. She’d always hated the western clothing she was forced to wear. But now it was a Wrathsend. None would be able to see her face.
When she turned around, a shiver ran through her from head to toe. It wasn’t fear—it was anticipation. For the first time since that night when Grey abandoned her in the crypts she felt in control of her own life.
“Take me to your brother, King Jove Loren,” she said. “I want to pledge him my support and beg his forgiveness.”
Ennis’s eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t object. “As you wish, princess.”
He led her into the corridor, and Rhea patted her side, relishing the feel of the shard of mirror hidden beneath the cloth.
They’d taken everything from her, and now she had nothing left to lose.
Jove was sitting on Rhea’s throne, wearing her crown. Though seeing him like that, with his smug expression and pious pity, made her want to scream, she forced herself to appear repentant and broken.
The false king was alone, save for three guards who’d either managed to survive the attack that killed her father, or who’d been recently added to the castle cortege.
“Thank you for seeing me, Your Highness,” Rhea said, her head bowed toward the stone floor. She kneeled in what she knew would appear to be reverence and fealty, a pose she’d seen countless others strike while groveling before her father.
“Yes, well, you have paid for your sins, and I am not an unmerciful king.”
You are not a king at all, Rhea thought. “I would prefer to do this alone, with only Wrath as my witness,” she said.
“My lady?” Ennis said from behind her. Yes, cousin, I mean you should leave. Especially you.
“Leave us, brother,” Jove said. “You can escort her back to her chambers once we are finished.”
Rhea remained on her knees, though they were throbbing from the hard stone. Pain was nothing now. She had felt pain. Agony was her only friend. She heard Ennis mutter something, but then leave, his footsteps fading away.
“You may rise,” Jove said.
“Thank you, Your Highness.” It took you long enough. “And your guards?”
Through the pale blue lace of her veil, she saw her cousin’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “You would have your new king unprotected?”
Rhea cast her eyes down once more, feigning embarrassment. “Of course not, my king. They would still be guarding the door from intruders, and there is no other way inside the court.” And surely you don’t fear a sixteen-year-old scarred girl with a broken spirit, do you?
The king seemed to consider the truth of her words for a moment, and then flicked his fingers at his trio of protectors, as if he didn’t care whether he ever saw them again. He’s already drunk on his power, Rhea thought as the guards left, closing the door behind them.
Queen Rhea Loren was alone with the false king.
For a moment, her nerve faltered, and she had the urge to truly beg his forgiveness, to ask for a place in his court, so she could go back to the life she’d loved, filled with feasts and dancing and midnight rendezvous with notorious criminals.
But her face made all of that impossible. If the furia and Jove had wanted to create a monster, then they were successful. Rhea would be the monster.
“Well?” Jove said, impatiently drumming his fingers on the throne’s armrest.
“May I approach, Your Highness?” she asked. Eyes still down. Broken. Pathetic. Penitent.
“As you wish,” he said, like he didn’t care whether she did or not—whether she lived or died or faded away into obscurity.
She shuffled forward, lifting her skirts as she mounted the three steps to the raised throne. She felt the shard of mirror shift and her breath left her. If it falls out, it’s over.
Surreptitiously, she clamped a hand to her side, pinning the dislodged spike against her hip. While she bowed deeply, she clawed her fingers through the material, closing them around the base of the makeshift blade. It was a crude weapon, and even the handle was sharp, pricking her fingers through the silk covering. She relished the warmth of her own blood as it flowed down her palm.
“Your Highness,” Rhea said. “I am here to beg your forgiveness and pledge my service and life to you. It’s what my father would’ve wanted.”
The king said nothing, still tapping his fingers. Had she misjudged him? She waited for him to proceed with the traditional rite of royal forgiveness. He cleared his throat. Said, “Have you realized the error in your sinful ways?”
He was going to make her work for this. “Yes,” she said, trying to keep the angry growl from her voice. Warm blood trickled down the skin of her hand.
“Are you willing to receive the light of Wrath back into your life?”
“Yes.”
“Will you accept a political marriage proposal if I arrange one?”
How dare you? she wanted to scream. He was already planning to marry her off to one of the other kingdoms in an effort to form an alliance. He was likely to send her to the north, like her Aunt Sabria. Lord Griswold had to be half a hundred years old! And her aunt had died because of such a marriage.
“Yes,” she said, the obedient girl she’d always been.
The king sighed, continuing to drag things out. Finally, he extended his hand toward Rhea. His second finger bore a Loren family heirloom, the ring of kings. An enormous blue diamond sparkled from a thousand facets, fixed within a thick band of pure gold.
All she had to do was kiss the ring, and it would seal the deal. She’d be a happy princess in the good graces of her righteous king.
She kissed the cool gemstone, and he said, “By the power bestowed upon me by Wrath and his holy servants, I absolve you of your sins and accept your pledge of service.”
Beneath her veil, Rhea smiled. In one swift motion, she withdrew her hand from her dress, erupted from her lowered stance, and lunged at the king.
Leaning forward so she could kiss the ring, Jove had left himself completely unprotected. She drove the spike into his neck, shocked by the amount of blood that erupted from his skin, a crimson geyser, splattering warmth on her face. He tried to cry out, but all that arose was a wet gurgle.
Rhea backed away, slightly horrified—slightly more excited—by what she’d done, by the power over life and death she’d claimed for her own. Wrapping his hands around the glass shard, his eyes wide with shock and terror, Jove sprawled forward, tumbling down the steps, smearing blood on the stonework.
For a few seconds, Rhea could do nothing more than stare as her cousin twitched, shook, and then went completely still.
She didn’t have much time, but still, she approached slowly, imagining Jove rising from the dead, his ghost ready for vengeance. Thankfully, he remained dead, and she managed to roll him over. His mouth was open, his eyes wide, but she didn’t bother to close either. Instead, she wrapped her hands in cl
oth from her dress and wrenched the spike from his neck. More blood bubbled out, adding to the lake.
Rhea forced herself to look at it, until the bitter taste of bile rose from the back of her throat. She vomited. It was all part of the charade.
Spitting out the last of the bitterness from her mouth, she gripped the glass shard, took a deep breath, and raked it across her abdomen, slicing clean through her dress in the process. Pain flared up and blood flowed freely. The cut was deep enough for her ruse, but not so deep as to kill her—at least she hoped not.
She dropped the spike at her feet, collapsed in the puddle of vomit and blood, and screamed at the top of her bloody lungs.
Thirty-Three
The Eastern Kingdom, Raider’s Pass
Roan
Wearing the dark cloak of night, the white cliffs loomed like sentries on either side as the eastern battalion marched into Raider’s Pass. In the typical manner of the east, the king led the column, unafraid to die for his brave men and women. Despite the way his conversation with the king had ended the night before, Roan marveled at the courage of Oren Ironclad and his sons, who never once considered sending their soldiers ahead as a shield. It was almost as if the death of the queen had become their armor.
Then again, Gareth was the Shield, a fact that reminded Roan why he was still here, marching with an army he had no real connection with.
Am I brave? Roan wondered to himself. After all, he could’ve left the night before, could’ve crossed the river, vanished into the Tangle, never to be seen in the east again. After the king had rejected his proposal for peace, he’d once more considered leaving. Instead he’d just shook his head and gone to bed. No, he chided himself. I’m just stupid.
The thought made him chuckle, despite himself.
The horses had been left behind, the Pass too narrow and steep for their size.
Roan was in the second wave of soldiers, because he was “too valuable to lose during the initial attack.” He’d been given a beautiful sword designed and forged by the late Bark, an irony that wasn’t lost on Roan. Even in death, the man would protect Roan, though Roan had been unable to save him outside of Glee. Roan had also been assigned a protector, though she accepted the position grudgingly. Gwendolyn ignored several of his glances as she walked beside him.
Once into the wide mouth of the pass, the trail became rocky, gaining in elevation with each step. It narrowed, too, until they were forced to march four astride, then three, then two, and eventually single file. Gwendolyn insisted on going first, though it wasn’t clear whether she was just following the king’s orders, or if she genuinely cared for his well-being. Roan suspected it was the former.
The trail was treacherous in the dark, forcing the column to slow as the soldiers placed each foot carefully, feeling their way forward. On their right was a steep, snowy incline. On their left was a sheer drop to the frozen river. In Roan’s opinion, any advantage gained by a night attack was lost due to the snail-like speed of their approach and the risk of falling to their deaths. Unfortunately, however, the king showed no signs of changing his mind, the front lines moving forward step by step.
Occasionally, armor clanked, but other than that, the only sounds were their muffled footsteps through the snow and their ragged breathing. Also, the Snake River burbled under the ice, masking all. Earlier, Roan had been inspired by his own attempt to cross the ice, and asked whether it would be easier to simply walk along the surface of the iced-over river, but his idea had been quickly shot down. Evidently the ice had already been tested—it could hold the weight of several large men, but not a force of their size. Plus, a well-aimed boulder falling from the cliffs above would send the entire battalion into the deadly waters.
The wind picked up, a gale force that threatened to sweep them all from the trail as it whistled through the canyon. Roan lowered his head, focusing on each step, doing his best to remain as far to the right as possible, hugging the hillside.
Two harsh hours passed without event, other than Roan’s toes losing all feeling. He wondered if they’d fallen off, rattling around in his boots. Now there was no going back, the distance to the northern edge of the pass as close as their camp.
The snowfall—which had thus far been nothing more than a few errant flurries—began in earnest, coating their armor and blinding their vision. With the snow on the rarely used trail deepening, the going became even slower, and Roan was forced to stop several times when those ahead of them paused to clear the pass.
It was during one such halt that the first attack came. Initially, Roan couldn’t identify the sound, which was nothing more than a zip and the displacement of air. Just ahead of him a soldier toppled from the cliff, a feathered arrow protruding from a narrow gap in his faceplate.
A chorus of zips filled the air at the same time as someone shouted, “Down!”
Roan reacted too slow, and Gwendolyn hauled him to the rocky trail a half a moment before an arrow whizzed past, landing somewhere below. Several more soldiers fell from the cliffs, their screams lost on the wind, before the only noise was the clank of shields and armor jostling for position, and the plink of arrowheads bouncing off iron.
Gwendolyn’s shield was long and narrow, and they huddled behind it, so close that Roan could taste her breath on his tongue. “What do we do?” he asked, regaining his own breath.
“Wait.”
Eventually, the archers paused, realizing the surprise of their initial assault had lost its effectiveness. A cry went up from the cliffs, some kind of birdcall, and it travelled down the line, away from them.
“A warning to the northern defenders,” Gwendolyn said. “Even if we make it through the pass, they’ll be ready for us. The element of surprise is lost.”
What am I doing here? Roan asked himself as a second wave of arrows—these ones on fire—rained from above. I am no warrior. I hate war.
I’m here so Gareth doesn’t have to die, he reminded himself. I’m here because he doesn’t deserve to die.
A burst of flame ripped past his ear, so close he could feel the heat. He shook his head, rattling the thoughts away. Regardless of why he was in this exact place at this exact time—whether by some twisted stroke of fate, plain bad luck, or because of a random series of foolish choices—it was not the time to be philosophical.
“On my mark we will rise as one,” Gwendolyn hissed. “Hold my shield and stay behind its edges.” Roan felt like a child, a burden to the true, highly trained warriors within the battalion. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t save anyone from a fall from the cliffs, skinmark or not.
“Now!” Gwendolyn said, bursting to her feet. Roan pushed himself up beside her, keeping his head down and holding the weight of her shield, which was surprisingly light despite its size.
Gwendolyn didn’t waste a moment, extracting her bow from where it hung on her back. She fitted arrows to the string in short succession, firing two at a time, a feat Roan had once seen in competition, but never in real life. Then again, he’d never been in the midst of a real battle before.
There were shouts from above, but Roan didn’t know whether they were a result of Gwendolyn’s shots. Knowing her, she’d probably hit her targets every time.
Down the line, other archers in the company were shooting at the cliffs too, aiming for the flashes of fire each time a flaming arrow was lit by the enemy. “Dead men falling!” someone yelled. Roan risked a peek past the edge of the shield just in time to dodge a corpse that tumbled past, nearly taking off his head. Even dead, their enemies were dangerous from the high ground.
“Forward march!” a voice bellowed, and Roan found himself pleased to recognize the king’s gruff tone. Somehow, it invigorated him, sending hope to his cold bones and tired muscles.
The battalion moved forward, quicker now, their eyes fully adjusted to the darkness, assisted by dozens of fire arrows sticking up from the snow, lighting the trail. The occasional arrow still rocketed from above, but they were few and far between. As t
he trail started to widen once more, Roan began to think it all felt too easy.
That’s when the first boulders tumbled down the mountainside.
“Look out!” someone shouted. Everyone craned their heads to look, not that it mattered. The boulder was enormous, bouncing and rolling and gaining momentum as it plunged from above, pushed past the tipping point by the northerners.
Those in its direct path tried to scatter, but there was nowhere to go, hemmed in on both sides by their own allies. And yet it wasn’t they who died, because, at the last moment, the boulder split in half, each jagged piece changing direction wildly. Those in its initial direct path were spared, while the soldiers on either side were hit head on. Dozens of men and women, humans and Orians, were crushed.
Roan’s heart was in his throat, the horrifying image flashing in his mind in the eerie silence that followed, just before there was the crack of ice and a heavy splash.
And that was only the first boulder. Dozens more rolled down the mountain, splitting and changing direction, eliminating soldiers in a seemingly random fashion. Not knowing what else to do, Roan hunkered down tight against the cliff face. Luckily, the mountainside above him had a cleft in its shoulder. At least two boulders literally flew directly over his head, appearing to move in slow motion.
Gwendolyn was tight beside him, her expression fierce and determined. “It’s your turn,” she said as another boulder arced past.
Roan stared at her. “Turn to do what?”
“Don’t you hear their cries?”
In truth, Roan couldn’t hear anything but the roaring of blood through his veins, her voice in his ear, and the occasional crack of stone hitting ice. He cocked his head to the side and listened intently, the sounds slowly coming into focus.
Men and women in agony, pleading for help. Or perhaps to be put out of their misery. “I hear them,” he said.
“Will you answer their call?” Gwendolyn asked. “I have made my choice. Have you?” Before he could respond, she was already gone, leaving him with her shield and a decision to make. For Roan, it was no decision at all. Not anymore. He’d made the choice on the frozen river the night before.