by David Estes
The Eastern Kingdom, South of Raider’s Pass
Roan
Over the last few weeks, Roan had awoken in a number of strange places. Now, in darkness, he awoke in chains. He squinted against the light of an approaching torch.
Voices rumbled nearby, but he couldn’t understand them, his ears still ringing with the clash of swords and rumble of timber cascading down a mountainside.
He remembered the light, flowing from his chest, splitting the sky in half.
The voices clarified. “How many dead?” one asked. Prince Grian. A memory stirred in Roan’s mind: Prince Guy’s throat cut wide open as he tumbled to the ground.
“The tally isn’t finished,” another voice replied. One of the platoon commanders, Hardy Ironclad, a cousin to the three princes. “But the numbers have already stretched over four thousand.”
“Our army was only five thousand.”
“Yes,” Hardy agreed. “The enemy lost only a third of our number. The rest retreated toward Gearhärt.”
“The northern force seemed smaller than we expected.”
“It was. Our scouts have returned from their northern expedition. They bring word of a girl resembling Annise Gäric riding with the army.”
“Annise Gäric? The princess was supposed to be in hiding, along with her brother.”
Hardy shook his head. “Apparently not. And the army was small because it was nothing more than a group of rebels who are planning to take back the throne from Lord Griswold.”
“We were defeated by a group of rebels?” Grian scoffed. “The king was killed. My brother was killed.”
“They were well-prepared,” Hardy said. “We lost many through the pass. Also, there was…” His lips hung open, unspoken words crowding inside his mouth.
Grian nodded, as if reading the commander’s mind. “What was that thing?” he asked. Roan immediately knew who—what—he meant. The boy cloaked in shadow. The boy who’d slashed open Guy’s throat and stabbed Gareth in the chest.
“Your father—” Hardy started to say.
“My father is dead!” Prince Grian snarled.
“You think I don’t know that?” Hardy said, glaring at the prince. “He was my uncle, but I loved him like a father, too. My father was the Shield, remember? He saved your father’s life once.”
Roan peered between half-closed lids at the two, wondering where Gareth was. He isn’t dead, he reasoned with himself. I felt the life still inside of him. I poured everything I had left into him.
But what if it wasn’t enough?
The prince and the commander glared at each other for a few long moments before their expressions softened simultaneously. “I can’t believe the Juggernaut is dead,” Hardy said.
“I thought the old man was invincible,” Grian agreed.
“It was that cursed knight,” Hardy said. “Did you see his flesh? It looked dead. His blood was black. The northerners are practicing dark magic. Sorcery. He almost killed Stonesledge, too. No human man could’ve done that.”
He almost killed Stonesledge. The ironmarked warrior had somehow managed to survive the battle, despite his grievous injuries.
“We will have our revenge,” Grian said.
A third person arrived, her slender figure a shadow, backlit by the torchlight. “Ho, Grian. Hardy,” Gwendolyn said by way of greeting.
“How is Gareth?” Grian asked.
“You mean the king?”
Grian grimaced. “I am the king. My brother is in no position to rule. It should’ve been Guy, but instead the responsibility falls to me.”
Gwen sighed, as if she was already tired of dealing with the prince. She didn’t argue the point. “He is alive, but weak. Roan managed to stave off the worst of Gareth’s wounds. But his injuries were grievous, and Roan lost strength before repairing them all. It will take him time to recover, but recover he will. And then he will be king.”
Gareth is alive, Roan thought, his eyes flashing open. I saved him. He was supposed to die and I saved him anyway. His chains rattled as he tried to lift his arms. “Where is he?” he groaned. “I can heal him the rest of the way. My strength is back. Mostly.”
Grian stood over him. There was no kindness in his eyes. Gwen hung back. Roan tried to catch her gaze, but she wouldn’t look at him. He’d never seen her look so uncertain.
“Who are you really?” Grian asked. “Not your normal nonsense about not knowing your father and your Southron mother. The truth. Now.”
When Roan hesitated, fumbling for a way to explain a long story in just a few words, Grian drew his sword and shoved the tip under Roan’s chin.
“Cousin,” Hardy cautioned.
Gwen said, “Remember, he saved Gareth.”
“Gareth was the Shield. He was not meant to be saved. The wrong brother died.”
If Roan wasn’t in chains, he might’ve tried to hit the prince. In the face. Hard. Traditions be damned, no man should have to die simply because he was born first. “Fate disagreed with you,” he said instead.
“Your words are as dusty as your lineage. You are the enemy,” Grian said, glaring at Roan, who was too scared to breathe, fearing the movement might puncture his neck on the blade. Turning toward the Orian, Grian added, “You said it yourself.”
“I said nothing,” Gwen said. “I merely told you what I overheard the strange boy say.”
Hardy pulled on the prince’s shoulder, and Grian finally retracted his blade. Roan breathed deeply, his heart thudding in his chest. “My father is…” he started to say.
But Gwen cut him off. “Your father is—was—King Gill Loren, ruler of the western kingdom. You have three siblings, Rhea, Bea, and Leo. Your aunt was Sabria Loren, executed by Lord Griswold. Her daughter and son, Annise Gäric and Arch Gäric, lawful heirs to the northern throne, are your cousins. It is said they fought bravely at Raider’s Pass, and Annise was seen retreating under her own strength. Arch was injured, but is presumed to be alive.”
Roan was stunned. She must’ve heard what the boy had said and connected the dots. There were a lot of dots to connect, but then again, she’d lived a long time. “I—”
“Which now, under western law, makes you the western king,” Hardy said.
“Roan Loren. Our sworn enemy,” Grian added. “All this time you were right under our thumbs. Marching along beside us, trading quips with Gareth and Gwen. We should kill you now.” His blade gleamed in the light, reflecting the deadly glint in his eyes.
“No,” Gwen said. “You cannot. He has great value as a ransom.” Her eyes caught Roan’s, and there was a gleam in them that belied her words. She’s lying, he realized. And for the first time since he’d met her, he could tell she really saw him.
“You don’t give orders,” Grian said.
“Your father respected my counsel enough to listen.”
Grian’s lips went tight, but he didn’t argue further. “We will discuss King Roan’s fate soon enough,” the prince said. “Keep an eye on him.”
Grian and Hardy left, carrying the torch with them, presumably off to check on Gareth’s condition. Roan wanted to follow them, but his chains were secured to a stake driven deep into the ground.
“Gareth is alive,” Roan breathed. Under the moon and starlight, he could just make out Gwen’s profile in the dark.
“Because of you.”
Roan nodded. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”
Gwen didn’t laugh, her eyes dark and serious. “That strange boy called you the Peacemaker.”
Roan shook his head, but it wasn’t an answer. “Yes, but I don’t know what that means.”
“You swear it?”
“You know far more than me about the marks. I never even knew about the Western Oracle until you told me.”
Gwen chewed on his words for a moment, seeming to contemplate them. She sighed. “My father always believed the marks were of greater importance than most people thought. Not just because of the power they gave the bearers, but because of the rol
e they might play in the fate of the Four Kingdoms. He often searched the eastern libraries for information, but alas, the Ironclads have never been particularly scholarly—the shelves were full of thin volumes with naught more than the occasional reference to the Western Oracle’s teachings. I do, however, remember him speaking of the Peacemaker, who would come to save the Four Kingdoms.”
Too bad her words are just words, Roan thought. And I am just a man. Then again, he was a man who, for the first time in his life, was unafraid of his fate and the mark he bore on his chest. He was no longer a slave to his past—maybe he never was. Something told him his story wasn’t over, not yet, and if he’d simply turn the page, the next chapter would begin.
“I am no savior,” he said.
“No, you are not,” Gwen agreed.
“I am no hero, either.”
“Perhaps not. But heroes are not born, they are grown. Each choice is a drop of water, each experience a ray of sunlight. They grow, day by day, until they are the tallest tree in the forest, willing to protect all who live under their shadow.”
“I fear I’m naught but a sapling at this point. The wind blows and I bend to the ground.”
“And yet I was wrong about you. You are no coward either.”
“Thank you. I will remind you of that as oft as I have the opportunity.” Before she could respond, he said, “I’ve been thinking more about the marks. Isn’t it strange that those who bear the marks are born in the very places that their particular powers are most suited to? For example, the Ice Lord is in the frozen north. And Fire Sandes was born in the burnt desert of Calyp. Even Beorn Stonesledge’s ironmark is suited to your ore-sheathed forests. Nothing is as random as it seems, as if there is a hidden design to it all. There’s a reason your father taught you the word fatemark, and I want to learn more. I suspect the Western Archives will be more complete than the east’s.”
“Aye. Surely they weren’t all destroyed. But I fear they are well hidden.”
“Nothing is hidden from the sight of a king,” Roan said.
Finally, Gwen smiled. “You always knew who you really were, didn’t you?”
Roan couldn’t deny it any longer. “I did. My guardian lied about many things, but not my lineage. Though I never used the surname Loren, it was always there, a part of me. I knew I couldn’t hide from it forever.”
“And you would be willing to risk your life by returning to the west?”
“I’ve already risked my life a dozen times in the last fortnight. What’s once more?”
“I saw you on the frozen river, the night before last,” Gwen said. The abrupt change of subject made Roan flinch.
“You did?” He frowned. He’d thought he’d been stealthy, but it seemed everyone knew of his midnight romp. Everyone except Gareth, perhaps.
Gwen nodded. “I thought for certain you were leaving. I misjudged you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything before the battle?”
“Because we all have our demons, and we must face them alone.”
“We should face them together,” Roan said immediately. When had he started believing that? Sometime between getting infected with the plague, nearly being devoured by dragons, mauled by an ore cat, and almost falling to his death in Raider’s Pass. Aye, somewhere in there I have changed.
“You surprise me,” she said.
“I surprise myself. But I want to know the truth about my mark. Yours too. All of them.”
“Good,” she said. “Because I’m coming with you.”
Roan raised one of his arms, shaking his chains. “Only one problem,” he said.
Gwen glanced around, and Roan followed her gaze. Several torches winked orange in the darkness, but none close by. They were alone. She withdrew a key from somewhere beneath her armor.
She unlocked the chains and removed his manacles, helping him to his feet.
“What about Gareth?” Roan asked.
“He is king of the east now. You’ve done all you can for him.”
He is alive. He is safe. I have no choice.
Silently, they moved away from camp.
May we meet again, Roan thought.
Despite leaving Gareth behind, for the first time in Roan’s life he felt as if he was doing the very thing he was meant to be doing at the very precise moment he was meant to be doing it.
Thirty-Seven
The Northern Kingdom, Gearhärt
Annise Gäric
Annise sat by her brother’s bedside, hunched over, exhausted but unable to sleep while Arch’s life hung in the balance. She was back in The Laughing Mamoothen, Netta’s female-only establishment that was once more making an exception for several men, including her brother. Arch’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell. Several times his eyes fluttered, but did not open.
Please, she begged the frozen gods of the north. Don’t take him too early.
His wound was grievous, and if not for Sir Dietrich he’d surely be dead.
I would be too, she reminded herself. She owed the knight a life debt, one she doubted she’d ever be able to repay. The way he’d moved…
Supernatural, was the word that sprang to mind. Her lost brother, Bane, had authority over death, and yet Sir Dietrich had defied him. None but one who was skinmarked could’ve defeated him, and even then it wouldn’t have been easy, though it had seemed that her brother had begun to weaken toward the end of the battle, his body trembling.
Sir Dietrich, she mused. She remembered when her uncle had his men strip the knight naked and shine a torch over his skin. There were so many scars, interlaced like vines dangling from a wooly tree. One scar in particular had stood out on his back, a rippling burn mark, larger than all the others. Would Sir Dietrich really have gone so far as to have himself severely burned in order to hide his mark? And if the answer was yes, why? He could’ve had a good life in the service of the crown. The finest food. The most lavish quarters. He would’ve stood side by side with the Ice Lord, second only to the king.
But he gave up all that for a hard life as a knight in a frozen land torn apart by war.
Thrice Sir Dietrich had come to check on Arch, and thrice she’d told him to go away. She still didn’t know why, only that she wanted to be alone with her brother. Zelda had tried to talk to her, too, but Annise had begged off, requesting a few days to consider what would come next. Zelda told her not to wait too long, for she had a duty to the kingdom.
I don’t want this duty, Annise thought now, as she had a dozen times before. This time, however, it was harder to tell whether the words rang of truth.
Annise flinched when someone cleared their throat.
“Frozen hell,” she muttered, seeing the giant man in the doorway. “Have you heard of knocking?”
“I didn’t want to disturb your brother’s sleep,” Tarin said, stepping inside. Before they’d left Raider’s Pass, he’d replaced his helmet. To her knowledge, he hadn’t removed it since. She wondered whether he ever would again. His breastplate was dented in, the shape of a smallish fist where her brother had punched him. She still couldn’t believe how much force had been behind the hit. Tarin was a mountain, but he’d flown backwards like a pebble.
“He’s unconscious. If a battle broke out in this very room he’d sleep right through it.”
“I’m sorry,” Tarin said. “I wish there was something I could do, but outside of battle I am of no use.”
Images flashed through Annise’s mind: Tarin knocking over the famed warrior, Beorn Stonesledge, he who was ironmarked, swatting him aside with almost predatory ease; Tarin smashing King Ironclad’s head with his Morningstar; the dark look in Tarin’s eyes when he was strangling the farmer, Killorn, what seemed like an eternity ago.
Yes, Tarin had mastered the art of violence long ago, either due to circumstance, experience, or simply because of the black blood flowing through his veins.
Annise blinked and forced herself to replace the disturbing images with others: Tarin wrapping his arm around her, h
is warmth flowing through her; the twinkle in his eyes when he first looked at her with undisguised awe and called her the Bear-Slayer; the way he always defended her against her own self-deprecating quips, like she was worth more than the sum of her external parts.
“You are a good man,” Annise said finally, realizing the knight had been staring at her for a long time, his head cocked to the side.
Tarin’s eyes narrowed behind his faceplate. “Your mother said that to me once.”
The mention of her mother made Annise choke slightly. Perhaps it was because Arch was now fighting for his life that she felt suddenly emotional. “She was right,” she said. “No matter what the rest of the kingdom says.”
Tarin shook his head, but he wasn’t disagreeing. “Sounds like good advice. Maybe you should listen to it yourself.”
Annise smirked at the knight’s cleverness. He’d caught her in her own words. A swell of something magnanimous and heavy filled her belly, her chest, her throat. Her mouth watered with feeling for this knight who hid behind plate and metal and dark mesh.
“Take off your mask,” she said.
Tarin didn’t move, frozen in place.
“I am the queen,” she said, feeling slightly bad for using her position so frivolously. “I command it.”
“You have seen my face once, and you would dare to look upon it again?” Tarin asked. She could see the confusion in his shadowy eyes.
“You question the courage of the woman who played Snow Wars with an ice bear and emerged victorious?” Annise said, trying to keep the mood light.
Tarin chuckled, but still didn’t move to take off his helmet. “I’m willing to barter. I will show you my face if you will look in that mirror.” He pointed to a looking glass hanging over a dressing table. Annise had been avoiding it ever since Arch was given this room for his recovery.
“Why?” Annise asked.
“Because I want you to see what I see.”
“Aye? What’s that? A pear with arms?”
“No,” Tarin said, his eyes serious. “Someone beautiful and strong and determined.”
She wanted to laugh at the fact that he’d not only used the word beautiful to describe her, but that he’d said it first in his list of compliments. But she couldn’t because there was no jest in his voice.