by David Estes
Jai stared at the ground, considering this new information. Here he’d thought someone had finally freed some of the slaves, but instead the Black Tears had only gotten more of them killed during the attempt.
Were his people destined to die, too?
Was it worth it—the risk? Could he still change his mind, usher his people back into the mine and tell the emperor the story of an attack by the Black Tears, an attack that was fought off by the slaves themselves, only the mine masters perishing before it was over?
He shook his head. No, there was no going back. He could see the hope in his people’s eyes, in the way they were squinting into the sun, wearing expressions full of amazement, smiles of happiness. They would press on, not south to Sonika’s too-small boat, but north to—
“The Southron Gates,” Jai said.
“That’s suicide,” Sonika said.
“Everything is suicide.” Jai told her and the others about what his father had told him, about the way through the wall. With Shanti’s fireroot it just might be possible…
“And you believe him?” Sonika’s eyes bored into him, searching for a lie.
“Yes,” Jai said.
“Why?”
“Because my father loved my mother.”
Once they were a safe distance away from the mine, Shanti used a torch to light the gray fireroot powder. Everyone watched the flames travel slowly along the ground, picking up speed when a stiff wind coaxed them from behind. Eventually the flames vanished into the dark tunnel entrance.
Jai held his breath, waiting.
A few moments passed without event, and he exhaled. He said, “Perhaps there was a break in the trail of powd—”
BOOM!
The ground shook, rumbling like an earthquake under their feet. Some of the people staggered, while strong arms shot out to help the children and elderly maintain their balance. A plume of smoke roiled from the entrance as rocks cracked and tumbled from above.
The earth went still once more. Silence returned. The mine was blocked by enormous chunks of stone.
The people cheered, and Jai found himself cheering along with them, as excited as he’d ever been. It felt like the first step to long-awaited freedom.
Everyone was staring toward the mine, so several people let out a high-pitched yip of surprise when a figure stumbled amongst them from behind, collapsing to his knees in front of Jai. “Master,” the man said, his voice like coarse sand rubbed across smooth stone. “What is your command?”
It was Axa, his previous mine master. And the last surviving one, Jai mused, his life having been saved by his own treachery. His black eyes rolled back in his head and he fell on his face, unconscious, the jewels sewn into his skin sparkling in the sunlight.
Sonika’s eyes ratcheted between Axa and Jai, her lips a thin line of distrust. “I thought you said no one called you master. Who is this man?”
“A new slave,” Jai said. Hurriedly, he explained everything, from his meeting with the emperor, to Axa’s poor decision, to the increase in production quota.
“Then this man should die like the others,” Sonika said. “He was a bad man, regardless of the slave mark he wears now.”
There were several murmurs of agreement from the crowd, which had gathered around the Black Tears. A few of them spat and kicked dirt in Axa’s direction. He’d been hated and feared by many of the slaves.
“It is the people’s choice,” Jai said, turning away from Sonika to face them. “Would you have me kill this half-dead man? He now bears the slave mark, like all of you. Regardless of what he has done in the past, he is another victim of the Slave Master. He is no threat, but I will do as you wish. He is yours now.”
A few shouts of “Kill him!” went up immediately, led by a broad-shouldered man named Joaquin who’d been beaten several times by Axa while in Garadia. Others, however, murmured, “No. Spare him.” Pockets of intense discussion ensued, rolling through the crowd. Eventually, each group sent forward a representative.
“What shall I do?” Jai asked each.
Only one of them voted to kill Axa. It was Joaquin, growling the decision. “You have chosen,” Jai said. “Now who will help me bear this burden?”
None stepped forward. Joaquin spat in the dirt.
“I shall bear him myself, for a time,” Jai said. He dribbled some water onto Axa’s lips, tilting his head back so the liquid would slide down his throat. The man groaned, choking and spitting out some of the water. Jai tried again, and this time more stayed down. Axa dozed, even as Jai hefted him onto his shoulders.
As he started to carry him, something hard dug into Jai’s shoulders, and he placed the unconscious man back on the ground, feeling about the sackcloth wrapped around his legs. There, hidden in the thick folds of the sackcloth, Jai found a small mirror, its reflective surface dusty and tarnished. His own wobbly reflection stared back at him.
Strange, he thought. Normally slaves didn’t have many possessions, though they were allowed to accumulate them if they could. Then again, the jewels sewn into Axa’s skin contained more wealth than all of the slaves had combined. Still, a mirror? It was a strange thing to have for a slave, especially a new one. I’ll have to ask him about it when he wakes up, Jai thought, tucking the mirror back into the folds of Axa’s sackcloth.
That’s when something occurred to him, something he’d forgotten about in all of the unexpected events of the night and morning. More like someone. Someone whose body wasn’t amongst those of the dead mine masters, and who he hadn’t seen in the crowd.
“The chariot driver,” he murmured. “Oh gods.”
“What?” Sonika asked, but Jai was already gone, racing back toward the caved-in mine, heading not for the entrance but for the stables, which were off to the side. He dashed inside, leaping a boulder that had crumbled from the side of the mountain during the explosion, leaving a gaping hole in the thatched roof.
The chariot was gone, along with the horse that had drawn it.
Along with the chariot driver.
Ten
The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End
Rhea Loren
The people—her people—were gathered before Rhea by the thousands. She was delighted to see how many of them had cut their faces to match her own. According to her spies in the city, more and more did so each and every day. Legions of the righteous pledging their allegiance to their righteous queen and their god, Wrath, holy be his name.
Standing atop the castle walls, she raised her hands to silence them. A hush fell over the crowd, and, still, she marveled at the power she wielded. The power over sound. Over hearts. Over minds.
The thought of power brought a memory to the forefront of her mind. Grease Jolly’s—no, Grey Arris’s, she reminded herself—sister had power, too, provided by the sinmark she bore. What was her name again? Rhea wondered, but just as quickly thought Why do I care? Grease, Grey, whatever his name was, had left her, just as he did the first time, in the crypts, and now she had only herself to trust.
Then again, she wondered how things would’ve turned out if he hadn’t left, or if he’d taken her with him. She wondered where he was, if he was safe.
Secretly, she’d sent a rider to look for him, which constantly made her think I’m a fool.
She realized the people were still waiting for her to speak, their heads raised patiently upwards, some shielding their eyes from the sun. She forced thoughts of Grey away and spoke: “In the west, we believe in seven heavens. The first heaven is for the worst sinners, those who fail to carry out Wrath’s will on earth. They will burn for an eternity after they die.” She paused, letting them chew on that, though the idea of the first heaven had likely been hammered into their brains since before they could understand what it meant.
She continued: “The second heaven is here and now. This world. It is our chance to prove ourselves to Wrath. Our chance to display our righteousness. I see many of you who are taking that responsibility, that opportunity, seriously. My hope
is that you will all pledge yourselves to Wrath.”
“Here, here!” someone cried. And another: “All hail Queen Loren the Righteous!” More cheers went up, and for a few moments, Rhea allowed herself to bask in their adoration.
Once they had quieted again, she said, “The third heaven is for the apathetic, who die without caring about anyone or anything but themselves. Those sent there will relive the same, meaningless life again and again, for all of eternity. The fourth heaven isn’t much better, except you’re given a second chance to follow Wrath and ascend to a higher heaven. The fifth heaven is a cut above, where the righteous go, those who love Wrath, who believe his teachings with all their hearts, but who are too scared to actively carry out his will. It is my belief that most of you will achieve the fifth heaven.”
More cheers, which Rhea was glad to hear. It was a calculated risk on her part, telling them they would likely not achieve more than the fifth heaven. She wanted to build them up, but not so much that there was nowhere left to take them.
“The sixth heaven is a near miss, for those who did everything in their power to achieve Wrath’s will, but who, inevitably, fell just short, because they were too human. Still, it is a position of honor, a place where you can hear Wrath’s voice all the time, even if you can’t see our God’s Face.” She paused again, letting the silence build its own momentum. “And then there is the seventh heaven.”
Murmurs raced through the crowd, but they were quickly shushed by the others. Ears craned upward, desperate to hear Rhea’s thoughts on the pinnacle of human achievement in the afterlife.
“The seventh heaven is where I long to go, a place where I can look upon Wrath’s Face and see our God smile. That is why I cut my face, so I wouldn’t obsess over my beauty the way the seductresses to the south do.”
She saw the Fury to her right stiffen, but she remained silent.
“Many generations of Lorens have told you the same thing. My father, King Gill Loren, my mother, Queen Cecilia Loren, and their parents, and their parents’ parents, have counseled you to seek to reach the fifth heaven or above. They were not wrong in telling you this. And yet Wrath has told me to tell you something else. Something more.”
“She heard the Voice of Wrath!” someone cried.
Rhea saw numerous heads shaking in disbelief, so she rushed on. “Wrath spoke not directly to me, but through God’s righteous mouthpiece, one of the Three.” Rhea gestured to the Fury beside her. The woman, as Rhea had commanded her, said, “It’s true. Wrath spoke to Rhea through me.”
Astonishment and excitement rumbled through the audience. “What did God say?” several people shouted.
In that moment, Rhea knew she had them.
“That the people of Knight’s End are ready. That you are on the verge of something great. That I should counsel you to reach for the seventh heaven, for it stands ready to welcome you with Wrath’s open Arms.”
More cheers. Cheers of hope from a people who’d recently lost two kings, and were grasping for anything solid to hang on to.
“Our enemies belong in the first heaven. Their sinful ways are an abomination before Wrath. The northerners are corrupt, engaging in behavior more fit for beasts than humans. The easterners have bred with the Orians, who are known to engage in dark, unnatural magic. And the southerners? They are no more than barbarians, dressing like heathens, capturing Teran slaves by the thousands, celebrating vile creatures such as dragons and guanik, pyzons and vulzures. They are the reason the Kings’ Bane has risen, murdering our monarchs, murdering my father and cousin.”
“But what can we do, Your Righteousness?” an especially loud voice shouted. This individual, Rhea was forced to admit, was a plant, paid to ask that exact question at that exact moment. Rhea even made sure he had a horn to yell into, amplifying his voice. Even from high atop the wall she could almost hear his pockets jingling with gold coins. You earned your reward.
“A wise question,” she said. “And I have the answer, as spoken by Wrath. Are we so blessed as to be able to hide within our walled city, protected from evil, waiting for the day that we’ll be delivered to paradise? I say nay, we are only humans living in the second heaven, five long strides away from reaching our true reward. Nay! We must be more than the sinners who seek to tear us down. Nay! We must do more. We must cleanse this land from evil, from godlessness, from sinfulness. As humble servants who aspire to reach the seventh heaven, it is our responsibility—nay, our duty—to send our enemies to the fiery heaven they’ve earned and rid the world of their influence, carrying Wrath’s word to every corner of the Four Kingdoms and beyond! Anything less and we shall deserve our position in the darkness of the first heaven, where we will be hidden from the presence of Wrath forever.”
Silence fell across her people, who stared at her, rapt.
“We do not wish to inflict violence on our foes,” she continued, casting her eyes downward. Rhea thought of the moment Grey left her alone with the cobbler, which pushed tears to her eyes. A substitute for the real emotion she felt in this moment: anger. “No. We eschew violence with all of our beings…until it is necessary.”
“What would you have us do, Your Highness?”
She scanned her people from side to side, back to front, meeting individual eyes, capturing them in her own sparkling gaze. “Fight, I say.” And then, louder: “Fight! And be victorious for our God, for our country, for yourselves and your children and your children’s children and all who come after us!”
The crowd’s response was a roar, thousands of voices raised as one. Thousands who Rhea now believed would fight—and die, if necessary—for her.
She smiled, waved, and turned her back on them.
With the Fury standing silently beside her, Rhea sat on her throne, thinking about the first time she entered this very room after her father’s death.
How weak I was. How naïve. How oblivious.
She wondered if one’s life could be defined by a single moment, a single choice, and, if so, what her moment would be. The moment Grey abandoned her in the crypts? Or perhaps the moment she sought revenge on him? Or when she freed him, perhaps? She knew those were all important moments in her life, but not THE ONE.
No. Her moment was a darker one. The moment the Furies took her beauty from her with the edge of a blade? No again. No, no, no.
Her life to this point was defined by the moment she killed her cousin, when she took back what was rightfully hers. The beautiful ring on her finger. The golden crown on her head. The moment she felt the pure power running through her veins. The power to hold a life in one’s hand and either let it go or crush it into dust.
The thought made her unbearably sad. It wasn’t the moment she would choose, and yet it was all she had.
She was stirred from her revelry when her cousin entered. Not Jove, for he was dead. And not Sai, Wheaton, nor Gaia, for Rhea refused to speak to any of her cousins who’d failed to care for her in her time of need.
Ennis. The only cousin she’d ever truly liked. Perhaps even loved, if she was being completely honest. Though he was twenty-five years her senior, he’d always paid attention to her, even as a child. And he was the only one who’d come to her after her face had been carved by the Furies.
Now he was her adviser. Her only adviser.
He stepped forward without speaking, unwilling to meet Rhea’s eyes. He was angry, she could see. She’d done the very thing he’d counseled against: warmongering. If it was up to him, they would carry on the work of fortifying their defenses, as her father had done, and continue to protect their borders. He didn’t understand Rhea’s need to attack.
He didn’t understand that she’d sat back and waited for life to come to her for her entire pathetic existence. And what had it made her? A scarred orphan.
No more.
Ennis reached the steps and climbed them, but halted when the Fury moved to block his path, her hand resting firmly on the knife at her hip.
Ennis sighed, holding out a limp
scroll. “I have a message from the north. The stream only just arrived and the parchment hasn’t had time to dry.” Streaming was the fastest way to send messages across the land, using ink from the strange inkreed plant, which had a tendency to vanish when dipped in water, reappearing in the exact same form in the water where the inkreed was originally harvested from. Then the message could be transferred onto a blank piece of parchment. Hence the soaked page Ennis was now waving around.
“It’s fine,” Rhea said, although she was enjoying seeing this new side of her red-haired protector. But she didn’t fear her cousin. Even if he suspected she’d had something to do with his eldest brother’s death, he would never do anything to her. He didn’t have it in him. If one of them was a spider and the other was the fly caught in the web, she knew exactly who would play which role.
The Fury stepped back on command, like the obedient pup that she was. Her hand, however, remained on the gilded hilt of her knife.
“It’s from the north?” Rhea guessed.
“Yes,” Ennis said.
“Now Lord Griswold wants to speak,” she said. “Interesting that he reaches out after he’s amassed troops at Blackstone.”
They’d been arriving in droves for the last fortnight, lines of soldiers in gleaming armor, shimmering across the waters of the Bay of Bounty. Ships were being built by the north, too. Hundreds now lay moored in the harbor just south of the northern stronghold of Blackstone.
“It’s not from Griswold,” Ennis said.
She frowned, momentarily confused, a feeling she hated. “Approach.”
Ennis climbed the final two steps and passed her the wet scroll. She scanned the document:
Year of the Four Kingdoms:
Circa 532
Queen Rhea Loren, First of Your Name,
First, I am truly sorry for your loss. Your father, King Gill Loren, was a man of vision, who only wanted the best for his people. He was also my uncle, though I never had the opportunity to meet him. I am further saddened by the loss of my mother, Queen Sabria Loren Gäric, also your aunt. My uncle, Lord Griswold, who has declared himself king regent under false pretenses, murdered her in cold blood without a true trial. Although I did not witness her execution, my sister promises me that she was courageous and fearless at the end. I can only hope to make her proud as king.