by David Estes
“I am No One. I am the Beggar. I have killed hundreds. No, thousands. I deserve to die.” I want to die.
“I am the Empress of Calyp, and I decide your fate. Now that we have you, we can control you. Plague Island is destroyed and we were forced to exterminate the two-headed dragons that once guarded it. The beasts were old and half-mad anyway, so I won’t fault you for that. But now we fear to dump the infected in the ocean as it might contaminate the great waters. But as long as we have you, the plague can be sent far away from Calyp, to Phanes. To my divorced husband, the Slave Master, may he rot in the underworld.”
The Beggar couldn’t stop the dam from bursting any longer. He covered his head with his hands and wept.
The empress said nothing while he cried, and eventually he stopped. He looked up through blurred vision. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. Please don’t make me.”
“Dear boy,” she said. “You can do great things. Things that matter. All you have to do is reach out and touch those I command you to. Pledge yourself to me, and I will help you. I will give you sturdy clothes, thick gloves, a facemask, everything you need to ensure you only come into contact with those you’re meant to. How does that sound?”
He wasn’t certain exactly, but it didn’t sound as awful as he thought it would. Maybe he could still live, in the service of this powerful woman, the Dragon of the South, as she was known. He opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it when the air shimmered on the edge of his vision, almost like a mirage taking shape in the desert.
When he turned his head, he was shocked to find a boy, his scalp as bald as the day he was born, a round mark shining brightly. His eyes burned like fires, a stark contradiction to his snow-white skin and the dark clothing he wore—a cloak, gloves, and boots.
“What in the name of the gods are you?” Sun Sandes said. The light wobbled as she backed away a step. For the first time since she’d arrived, the Beggar thought he could detect fear in her voice.
“I am Bane, and you are marked for death,” he said. Then, with a speed and strength that defied explanation, the boy grabbed the Beggar under the arms and launched him at the empress.
He flailed in midair, trying to change his trajectory, but his momentum was too great. His naked body crashed into her, and he immediately felt the buzz of skin on skin, in multiple places.
She screamed, scrubbing at her arms and legs with her hands as she rolled away.
But it was too late. Once touched, it was always too late.
Horrified, the Beggar watched as red pustules rose to the surface of her skin, spreading like a wildfire raging out of control. “No,” she whispered under her breath. “Oh, gods, no.”
She stood, stepping on the edge of her dress in her haste, the fabric ripping under her trod. Then she turned and ran.
He watched her go, releasing a whimper of regret, tears already bubbling from the corners of his eyes.
She stopped. She turned. Reaching within the folds of her dress, the Empress of Calyp extracted a knife. The expression she wore was calm—almost too calm. “I must protect my daughters,” she said. And then she raised the knife, the point aiming back toward her chest.
The Beggar looked away, not wanting to watch.
But he could not stopper his ears from the squelch of broken flesh, and the muffled thump of her body hitting the floor.
“She was going to use you to make war,” the boy said, taking a step closer. The one who called himself Bane. He’d heard the rumors—everyone had—of the marked boy wreaking havoc on the rulers of the north and west and east. The Kings’ Bane. And now he was here, in the south. And he’d killed again.
No. It wasn’t him. It was me. I killed her. Me me me me me
“Oi.” The boy grabbed him by the chin with his gloved hand and steered his gaze around, until their eyes met. The flames had gone out, though the mark on his head was shining even brighter. Half of it seemed to be filled with blood. “We are alike, you and I. We are the same. Together, we can bring peace to the Four Kingdoms. That woman who called herself empress, she wanted more war, not less. I just want the fighting to stop. I want an end to all the death.”
The Beggar didn’t know what to think, what to say. As much as he didn’t want to believe this boy, this killer, he knew he was right. They were the same.
“You don’t have to decide now,” the boy said, slipping off his cloak and wrapping it around the Beggar’s shoulders. “Think about it. For now, come with me.”
The world spun, twisting with spirals of grey and black and red, and then he lost consciousness.
Eight
The Southern Empire, Calyp
Raven Sandes
Raven Sandes couldn’t believe her maata was dead.
The empress is dead, she thought, still trying to make sense of the senseless.
Thankfully, it wasn’t Whisper who’d found her body two days earlier. It was Fire, accompanied by the current shiva, or keeper of order. In Fire’s usual brash way, she’d acted without fear, without hesitation, flinging a flaming blade at her own mother’s plague-riddled corpse, burning it to ash and ensuring the disease could not spread. Ordinary fire wasn’t enough to eradicate the plague, but Fire’s flames were far from ordinary.
It had been eerily similar to how their grandmother, Empress Riza Sandes, named after the City of the Rising Sun, had died.
The man known as the Beggar had vanished after the murder, seemingly into thin air, for none of the guards had seen him escape.
Raven was dimly aware that the Second Daughter, Fire, was speaking, but she couldn’t seem to make out the words. Oh, gods, what are we going to do?
Her maata’s voice answered as clearly as if she was sitting directly beside her, having a conversation. You will do what the Sandes have always done: fight.
Her sister’s words clarified, took shape, and she caught the end of them. “…am asking, is will you, the First Daughter of Calyp, make a claim for the empire, dear sister?”
Fire was staring at her, her head cocked to the side. She was doing that thing again. The thing Raven hated, where she made tendrils of flames crackle around her face. Her sister might be an arrogant urchin, but she was also intelligent beyond her years. Since they were little girls, the Second Daughter had coveted their mother’s position as empress. Now, she was using her tattooya as a show of power, which was the only thing the Calypsians seemed to respect these days.
Well, Raven might not bear a mark of power, but she could be powerful, too, in her own way, and she would not allow her sister to swoop in and steal the seat of the empire out from under her. She glanced at her youngest sister, Whisper, who was staring at her feet, her eyes red from crying.
Raven stood, her dark eyes swooping across the hundreds of guanero in attendance, before boring into her sister’s. “I am,” she said. “And all those who oppose me will find themselves lacking.”
Fire smirked—she’d always loved a good challenge. “I, too, as the Second Daughter, will make a claim.” She turned purposefully toward Whisper, her mouth opening to speak again. She paused, and Raven saw the brief hesitation—for all her sister’s faults, Raven knew Fire loved their sister deeply, protectively. Seeing Whisper in pain was clearly affecting Fire. However, she recovered quickly. “Whisper, as the Third Daughter of Calyp, will you be making a claim for the empire?”
Whisper looked up, blinking rapidly. She’d only recently passed her fourteenth name day. Had the empress died a fortnight earlier, she wouldn’t have had a claim at all. “What? I—I, no. I will make no claim.” Raven was proud of her youngest sister for faltering only briefly.
“Then it is settled. The rule of the empire shall be mine or Raven’s. Shiva—”
“Shiva,” Raven said loudly, cutting her sister off. “Prepare the arena.”
Fire glowered at her, clearly annoyed that she’d stolen her thunder. Raven ignored her, turning on her heel and meeting Whisper across the dais.
“Are you all right?” Raven
asked. She longed to slide her arm around her sister’s back to embrace her, but she couldn’t, not in front of the guanero. Sandes women were strong and unemotional. They led with strength and loyalty and respect.
And, most of all, they grieved in private.
Whisper shook her head, saying nothing.
Fire caught up to them as they exited into the palace courtyard in the back. The massive three-sided pyramids for which Calypso was known stretched for the sky on each side, casting long triangular shadows across the land, intersecting in the center, where the Unburning Tree stood, its branches eternally aflame. It was said that the moment Fire came screaming into the world, the sacred tree caught fire and could not be extinguished, whether by water or blankets or otherwise. Though the tree was sheathed in flames, it did not burn.
As the sisters marched across the courtyard, several servants slipped in behind them, carrying Whisper’s long pale-pink silk dress so it wouldn’t drag in the dust. Raven’s garb was far more practical, a short leather skirt with matching tunic, fitted with a dozen loops and clasps used to carry all manner of weaponry—her long whips, several knives, three vials of poison, and a black ivory whistle, constructed of the bones of a guanik, which was used to summon and command the dragons.
Fire, in her usual pretentious manner, wore a red dress set with hundreds of guanik scales, making it shimmer in the sun like fire. Almost subconsciously, she summoned flames that began to lick at her heels as she walked.
“Is this really what you want, dear sister?” Fire said. “You know I can lead. Maata always said I was special, because of my tattooya.” Raven’s sister never missed an opportunity to remind her siblings of her mark, as if they could ever forget about it.
“I do not doubt your ability, or your leadership, but I fear you would lead Calypso into a war we cannot win.” Raven had harbored doubts about their mother’s plan to use the plague-bearer against their enemies, while Fire had been in full agreement. In the end, Raven wished she’d been wrong.
“We are already at war,” Fire snapped. “And you would allow our dearest Faata to control the south?”
“No. But I would be patient and wait for the dragons to mature.”
The dragons were a major point of contention amongst the sisters. While Raven was determined to give them more time and training, Fire would fly off into battle with them at this very moment, if she could. Whisper, on the other hand, was content to keep them as valuable pets.
Fire huffed in frustration, and fire rolled down her neck. “Oh, gods, not this again. If it were up to you, Faata will have tripled the size of his slave army before we attack.”
It was common knowledge that Vin Hoza had begun a breeding strategy for his slave army years earlier. Every two years or so a new batch was ready for battle. Each batch was comprised of five-thousand expertly trained and completely controllable slave warriors.
“Slaves are no match for dragons.”
Fire went silent, and Raven wished she hadn’t spoken. At least there was one thing they were in agreement about: killing the innocent slaves controlled by their father was a necessary evil both of them wished they didn’t have to do.
When they reached their personal residence within the palace, Fire said, “May the gods be with you,” and stuck out her hand.
“And with you,” Raven said, clasping her hand and sliding her fingers to her sister’s wrist. She recoiled sharply when Fire’s skin heated up rapidly, burning her.
Fire laughed and hustled into her rooms before Raven could retaliate.
Whisper tried to smile, but failed miserably. “Perhaps you should just let her have the empire. I’ve never seen her so determined.”
“I will die before I submit to her,” Raven muttered, sucking on her burned fingers.
“Don’t say that!”
The look on her sister’s face made Raven’s anger melt away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I miss her too.” Raven tugged Whisper gently into her rooms, letting the wall of tied-together guanik bones dangling from the entrance fall back into place behind them, clanking softly in the breeze.
Whisper fell into her arms, sobbing into her chest. Raven’s leather tunic was soon slick with tears. “Oh, sister,” she said. “I am here. Always.”
“I miss her too much. Like rain in the desert,” Whisper said, craning her head back to look into Raven’s eyes.
Her sister had always been an emotional sort, crying at the loss of one of the dragon brood, collecting sunflowers in the garden, decorating her sisters’ rooms. But now, this time, Raven thought she understood exactly what her sister was feeling. It was like a gaping hole had opened in her chest, filling with sand where her heart should be. It was so painful it almost doubled her over, and it took all her strength—the strength given to her by both her parents—to remain upright. She had to be strong for her youngest sister, for the empire, and she would.
“Come,” Raven said. “I will draw you a cool bath. It will help.”
While Whisper sat on the edge of her bed, Raven dried the tears from her sister’s sun-kissed cheeks, smoothed her chestnut hair back behind her delicate ears, and began to prepare her bath.
She didn’t request help from the palace servants. Some things you had to do on your own.
On the morrow she would enter the arena to face her own sister in a battle for the future, but tonight she would think of nothing but the past.
Hours later, after Whisper was bathed and dressed in nightclothes, and the sun had dipped so far beneath the horizon that the pyramids became shadowy, spiked mountains, Fire slipped into the room without a word. The three sisters huddled under the covers and spoke of memories of the woman who raised them, trained them, and never failed to tell them what they were worth.
They laughed and cried and remembered everything there was to remember.
And then they slept, all in a row, until morning came upon the City of the Rising Sun.
Nine
The Southern Empire, Phanes
Jai Jiroux
With a hissed warning to Jig and Viola to remain behind with their mother, Jai sprinted for the tunnel entrance. He hurdled several groggy miners who were sitting up and rubbing their eyes, dashed past a woman carrying two babies in her arms, and pushed between several of the larger miners, who had made their way to the front of the cavern, presumably to defend the others, if necessary.
The clank of metal on metal echoed down the tunnel, punctuated by cries of determination and pain—it was hard to tell one from the other.
The mine is under attack, Jai realized. But by whom?
The emperor, was the first thought that struck him. Jai’s methods had been determined to be too radical, too wild, regardless of the results. He and his mine masters would be struck down and replaced, as quickly and easily as ants in an anthill. Falcon Hoza would get his wish, and all Jai’s work to get to this position would be for naught.
Worse, the slaves would be punished for his sins, he knew.
“Stay here!” he commanded the cavern full of people, and he knew they would obey, because they had to. Unless…
He shook his head as he raced down the tunnel, his shadow growing and shrinking as he passed each torch mounted to the wall.
He emerged from the tunnel into chaos. Shadowy shapes moved all around him. A wash of green moonlight spilled through the mine entrance, glancing off the silver edges of weapons—swords and whip-barbs and knives—flashing like fireflies in the dark.
It was hard to tell friend from foe, but then—
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Bodies fell, almost in unison, hitting the ground with a vicious finality. How many? Half a dozen? And on which side? Besides him, Jai only had a dozen mine masters in his employ.
“Master Jiroux,” an unfamiliar voice said, stepping forward from the gloom, carrying a torch. It was a woman’s voice, and there were no women masters, a requirement laid down by Emperor Hoza himself.
Jai shielded his eyes from
the light, squinting, trying to see the torch bearer. His body instinctively fell into phen lu defense position, his knees bent, parallel to each other, his hips level, his back straight. His arms ready to block an attack if one came. “Who are you?”
“For you? The angel of death. The reaper. The end.”
Jai had no weapon—he’d never even carried a whip the way the other masters did, because he was more likely to turn it on the masters than the slaves. He was his own weapon.
“You are a master of phen lu?” the woman said, sounding surprised.
He nodded. “And phen ru.” Though true, it was a blatant attempt to give her pause before she attacked.
“An unusual combination. And yet you settle into the defense position first.”
“It was the first I learned. My preference.”
He took a step back, maintaining his stance, but she’d already cut the distance between them by half. More shadows crowded around her, shoulder to shoulder, blades emerging from the gloom like spikes from an enormous mace. The women wore tan form-fitting trousers and tunics, their belts teeming with weapons.
He realized something: They dispatched my mine masters, all of whom were masters of phen ru. These women must fight like wildcats.
“Please,” Jai said, but it was not a plea for his own life. “Don’t hurt the people. Give them a chance to escape.”
“Escape?” The word seemed to confuse the woman so much that her hand danced aside for a moment, the light stretching its fingers across her face.
Jai sucked in a breath. Her skin was covered in black markings.
They were tears.
“You are the Black Tears,” Jai said, remembering the tales of what they’d done to the other two mines, how they’d helped the slaves escape. And now they were attacking Garadia, the emperor’s most prized possession. Jai shook his head, unable to keep a thin smile from creasing his face. The brazenness of their attack was inspiring. He straightened up, falling out of stance.