by David Estes
But first she had a distasteful, but necessary, task to attend to.
The dungeon master opened the door for her as she approached. Ever since Wrathos’ Revenge, which is what the battle had been named by the bards, whom were already singing of her glory, Rhea had worn her battle armor whenever in public. She didn’t want her people to think one victory—regardless of how decisive it had been—was the end of the war. She even refused to have any of the metal cleaned or polished, using the bloodstains as a reminder that she had been there like any of the other soldiers, that she was one of them, willing to die for Wrath’s righteous cause.
Now, she said nothing to the grisly old dungeon master, for he didn’t have any ears to hear it. She simply nodded at him and continued onward, her boots echoing down the corridor. She wrinkled her nose when she remembered the last time she’d entered the dungeons—to see her twin siblings. Thankfully, she wasn’t here to see them today. No, she was here to visit another family member.
Ennis lifted his chin when she stopped before his cell. “My queen,” he said.
Wrath, Rhea thought. My cousin is a fool, yes, but an unflinchingly loyal fool. Shame I can’t keep him around.
“Dear Ennis,” she said. “How I’ve missed you.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. The truth was, she missed her never ending arguments with her cousin, his constant attempts at chivalry, and even his misplaced sense of honor. She missed her whipped dog, too, the Fury, but she could eventually be replaced. Not Ennis.
Once he was gone, she wouldn’t have a single cousin left in Knight’s End—apparently Ennis’s three living siblings had fled the castle moments before the battle with the north had begun, expecting the north to win.
She pushed aside the sadness and loneliness that was always there, on the fringes of her heart, waiting to clamp down.
“And I, you, Rhea.” The way he said her name was too tender, too familiar, considering he was the one behind bars. His voice scraped against her nerves.
“You still love me? Even after I’ve had you imprisoned for a fortnight?”
“I will always love you, cousin. I have always loved you, since the day you were born. Even with your faults.”
“Didn’t you hear? I have no faults.” In addition to the numerous titles bestowed upon her—the Righteous, the Brave, the Pure, the Guide—the Faultless had been added by her people.
“We all have faults,” Ennis said. “Mine was being too weak to convince you otherwise.”
“And treason. Don’t forget that one,” Rhea mused, drumming her fingernails on one of the iron bars. Her cold exterior was the only true armor she had left.
I can’t lose you too, Ennis, why oh why did you have to disobey me in battle?
“If treason is protecting one’s queen from certain death, then I am the greatest traitor in the realm,” Ennis said.
Wrath, does he always have to make things so difficult? “You disobeyed a direct command from your queen. You almost cost us the battle. If not for my actions—”
“We would never have lost half the fleet, would never have sacrificed thousands of lives to satisfy your need for destruction, would never have summoned a demon from the depths of the sea.”
Rhea clucked her tongue, anger pushing away the sadness. “Now you decide to grow bold, cousin? It’s too late. Your words are chaff in fields that have already been harvested. And your soul is lost to me.”
“I fear it was always lost to you.”
It wasn’t. It isn’t. “Perhaps,” Rhea said. “But I tire of this conversation. I am giving you a choice, Ennis, only because I care about you still, even when you are like this.”
“What choice is there in death?” he asked, and for the first time the fight had gone out of him, his shoulders sagging, as if the weight of his own thoughts were too much for him to bear—the weight of the world. Rhea felt sorry for him, but not as sorry as she felt for herself, for having to do this. He spat the next words out the same way he’d spat at the feet of their enemies on the deck of Wrath’s Chosen before their last stand. “Guillotine or noose? Blade to the heart or to the head? Whatever I choose, I go to meet my maker in whatever heaven Wrath sees fit to honor me with.”
“Unless you choose life,” Rhea said. Ennis blinked in surprise. Good, let him be shocked. She remembered another name given to her: the Merciful. It was one of her favorites, even if it was a lie. She wasn’t given mercy under the Fury’s blade; why should she offer it herself?
“What life?” her cousin asked.
“Banishment. To Crimea or the Hinterlands or Teragon. Or even the unexplored oceans to the east, if you can survive the trek through enemy countryside. As long as I am alive, as long as I am queen, you will not set foot in the Four Kingdoms again.”
He stood, gingerly, favoring his right leg, his arm and shoulder still heavily wrapped. Walked over to the bars. Reached through, taking her hand with tender fingers, like she was as delicate as glass.
“I choose death,” he said.
Despite all her bravado and bluster, Rhea’s heart sank.
Rhea’s command had been simple:
Bring me everything you can find on the Western Oracle from the Archives.
Though the archivists’ jaws had dropped open, they’d scurried away to do their duty. However, what they came back with was disappointing. Two books, three scrolls, and a half-burned section of parchment that was nearly illegible.
Still, Rhea was glad for the distraction after her meeting with Ennis hadn’t gone as planned. She opened the first book, an abridged history of the fourth century after the Crimean discovery of the Four Kingdoms. The archivists had been thorough, identifying the pages of interest with white ribbon and using a removable gray chalk to highlight the relevant passages.
Only two pages had ribbons. Only one passage on each page was marked. They were frustratingly brief. Circa 350: A woman who later became known as the Western Oracle prophesies of the ‘coming of the fatemarks,’ which will return peace to the Four Kingdoms. The first passage, while short, was odd. Everyone knew that the Hundred Years War didn’t begin until the fifth century. Before then, there was relative peace in the Four Kingdoms. Which, in a way, meant the Oracle had predicted the war fifty years before it began. It said nothing of her being one of the original Furies, however, like she’d been told.
The next passage was equally short. Circa 352: Western Oracle is charged with heresy and sorcery after the first marks appear on newborn children, giving them strange and unnatural powers. She is sentenced to death, as well as those who are marked.
Rhea noticed a subtle distinction. The Western Oracle was sentenced to death, but there was nothing about the sentence being carried out. Maybe it was nothing. And even if she wasn’t executed, that was nearly two centuries ago, so she’d have died of natural causes already. Still…
Rhea opened the next book, which only had one passage marked: A prophecy by the Western Oracle: The fatemarked shall arise, and one marked with Death, the Kings’ Bane, shall bring about the death of eight rulers, cleansing the realm. And then the Peacemaker shall come, and with him, Life.
Kings’ Bane. The demon who’d stalked this very castle, murdering guardsmen at will, eventually slitting her father’s throat. Rulers were dying. Her father. The Dread King in the North. King Ironclad at Raider’s Pass. There were even rumors being streamed that Empress Sun Sandes had been killed under strange circumstances in Calypso. One ruler was nothing. Two? A coincidence. But four, all within a short time period?
She slammed the book shut and unfurled the first scroll, which contained a series of quotes scribed during a trial. The Western Oracle’s trial, Rhea noted. Again, the relevant spot was highlighted with gray dust. She’d have to commend the archivists later.
‘For I am but a Servant of the All Mighty, our Lord and God, Wrath, who is of Many Names, including the Teran name, Absence, who I have communed with on my travels. They call me a Witch. They call me a Sorceress. They call me the Western Oracle. B
ut I am Nothing. I am a Woman. I am a Servant. I Create what I am told to Create.’
Rhea breathed in. The Western Oracle hadn’t just claimed to know of the coming of the marks. No. She claimed to have created them.
Rhea reread the passage, and then slowly rolled up the scroll, tying it carefully with the ribbon. Why doesn’t anyone talk about this? She knew the answer. If people thought the Oracle had created the marks in the name of Wrath, or at least claimed to, they might begin to question whether the marks were truly evil. The furia and the Loren king at the time had declared them sinful, given them the name sinmarks. Rhea was surprised this scroll had survived. Clearly, based on how few references there were to the Oracle in the Archives, most documents had been destroyed.
Greedily, she untied the second scroll. The entire top portion was wrinkled and damaged, the ink long smudged away, as if it had been immersed in water. Only one passage remained, and most of it was illegible. The…Oracle’s son…not…found, though…certain he…located before…moons next kiss…sky.
The Western Oracle had a son? Why didn’t anyone talk about him? Who was he? Was he executed too? Was he a sorcerer like his mother?
Rhea felt supercharged, like she was closing in on some important truth. Something once lost, hidden behind misinformation and lies. The third scroll felt more precious than gold in her hands as she unfurled it. Disappointment swam like river trout in her stomach. The entire scroll was destroyed, save for one word: Oracle.
She didn’t take the care with this scroll that she had with the others, crumpling it, tearing it, tossing the remains into the fire. Why would anyone even keep such a pointless scroll? Maybe the archivists weren’t as helpful as she thought.
The last document was black and crisp around the edges. Clearly it had been tossed into a fire and then quickly retrieved, the flames stamped out before they could consume the entire document. Still, most of it was unusable. On the top portion, she could just make out who it was addressed to, as well as part of the year. Circa 37… Rhea knew there was no way this document was from the year 37, so it must be 37-something, long after the Oracle had been sentenced to death for her crimes. It was addressed to King Loren and it began with Hear my words… Everything after that was lost, the page eaten through the middle by the flames, leaving it charred and full of holes. There were, however, a few words toward the bottom. She lives on. She will never die. Will you? The letter was unsigned.
Something occurred to Rhea. How did the archivists know this letter had anything to do with the Western Oracle if it made no reference to her? She realized something else. After being burned and then nearly two centuries passing, wouldn’t the paper be practically falling apart? Instead, it was in reasonable condition, other than the scorched parts. She sniffed it. It smelled like fire, ashy. Wouldn’t the scent have worn off years ago?
As she marched into the archivists’ office, Rhea was a storm, her armor seeming to spark with lightning, her expression a dark cloud. Crimson raindrops fell around her sides, the furia. “Stop!” she said.
The archivist spun around, the evidence of her sins held in her hands, which were shaking. Smoke poured from the hearth, which blazed with fire, flames licking the sides of a pile of books and scrolls, cresting the top, consuming them.
As her furia grabbed the woman, wrenching the unburned documents from her hands, Rhea wondered where the other archivist was. Then she saw a leg sticking out from behind an old wooden desk. Rhea barely noticed when one of the furia slit the first archivist’s throat, her body thumping to the floor, because she was peering around the corner of the desk. The other archivist had a knife buried in her chest, her dead hands gripping it as if she’d tried to pull it out before she died. Instinctively, Rhea knew the woman had known she was already dead, so she’d killed herself.
Why? The question thundered through her chest.
Secrets and lies. All for what? Rhea frowned, half-watching as the furia carried the dead women away. If the marks were known to be created by Wrath, or at least by his command, the Western Oracle would be more akin to a priestess than a dark sorceress, the Fury she originally was. But what would that mean? The facts lined up in Rhea’s head. The marks were not exclusive to the Western Kingdom. No, they were pervasive to the Four Kingdoms, appearing in equal measure in each realm. The west simply killed those that bore them. But if the marks and their bearers were known to not be evil…then why would Wrath give them to the barbarian Southroners? To the eastern witches? To the godless sinners of the north? And if the furia had been killing markbearers for no reason…
Secrets and lies, Rhea thought. This can’t get out or there will be chaos.
“Bring whatever survived to my chambers,” she commanded the furia who remained.
Thirty-Two
The Western Kingdom, the Grasslands
Roan Loren
Roan and his companions soon learned that the grasslands of the western kingdom were not friendly to strangers, despite the numerous farms that dotted the landscape, with herds of cattle and flocks of sheep grazing across the prairie.
The first farmer they spied fled to his dwelling, barring the door and peering out at them through a smudged window. “Go away!” he shouted. “Don’t want no trouble.”
After they left, Gwen touched the dark headscarf she’d donned at the first sign of civilization. “Is my hair showing?”
Roan started to examine the edges of the fabric, looking for gaps, but Gareth pushed him aside. “Let me,” he said.
Roan frowned, but didn’t argue. It was the first thing Gareth had said to him since they left the Tangle, so he took it as a small victory. Instead, he focused on the graceful but strong lines of Gwendolyn’s face, which was partially hidden beneath the shadow of the scarf. It was like the covering only made her more beautiful, more mysterious. He desperately wanted to reach over and touch her chin, her cheek, run his fingers along her skin, move closer, his lips parting—
“You’re covered,” Gareth announced, cutting off Roan’s thoughts. He blushed slightly when Gwendolyn lifted the scarf and noticed him staring at her. The hint of a smile played on her lips, as if she could see inside his head, which only made his cheeks grow warmer.
Roan wondered how different things might be if Gareth hadn’t reacted to their kiss the way he had. Would he still be interested in Gwen? Would he be torn between them both? But that wasn’t a problem anymore, and he couldn’t dwell on a man who clearly had no interest in him, right? Regardless, he was tired of hiding his feelings, which were like a turtle stuck in a shell, trying to burst free. But he couldn’t let them, for he didn’t want to further alienate Gareth when he was clearly dealing with his own internal struggles. Also, Roan wasn’t certain whether Gareth had ever had true feelings for Gwen, or if his talk of her beauty was merely a long-running jape to him.
Also, despite his attempts to forget about the prince, he couldn’t, not when every time he saw him he felt pulled in different directions. Sometimes he felt like a stranger. Sometimes like a close friend. Sometimes like something more…
All those thoughts passed through his mind in a second.
He doesn’t want you anyway, so forget about him, he urged himself once more. He speaks of his conquests of women like victories in battle. And you have Gwen to think about now…
They continued on, feeling the farmer’s eyes watching them until they passed out of sight.
The next farm they came to earned them a similar result. This time, the farmer’s entire family was outdoors, working the fields, when they were spotted. The farmer ushered his family inside, dropping tools as they ran.
“We mean you no harm,” Roan said through the door. He wondered what sort of travelers passed by that they should be so frightened. When there was no response from inside, Roan turned to Gareth and said, “Do you have only eastern coin?” He was certain the iron Shields of the east would be worth little and less here in the west.
Gareth shook his head, riffling through a large
pouch that jingled when he moved it. He extracted a gold disk, unprinted on both sides. Neutral currency, used during periods when the war was at a standstill and inter-kingdom trade was possible.
Roan placed the coin in front of the door, and said, “I’m leaving one Golden for your trouble. And we’re taking one of your fat sheep and a basket of vegetables.”
Gwen grabbed his arm. “You’ve overpaid,” she hissed.
“It will sustain us until Restor,” he said, “so it’s worth the gold.” Plus, it was only fair considering the farmer didn’t exactly agree to the transaction.
They were heading back toward the sheep, when Roan heard the door creak open. The farmer peeked out. “Take a dozen eggs from the henhouse, too,” he said.
“Thank you,” Roan said.
“Don’t thank me. Just don’t come back.”
The man snatched the coin off the ground and started to duck back inside, but Roan quickly asked, “Who are you so scared of?”
The man paused, frowning. “You’re not from the west, are you.”
It wasn’t a question, and Roan froze. I’m a fool, he thought. Asking a question like that in Restor could get them killed. “We have been traveling a long time,” he said neutrally.
The man squinted at them, though the sun was hidden behind puffy white clouds. “The west used to be a safe place. The furia patrolled the Western Road. They protected farmers like me. Like my neighbors. But ever since King Gill Loren was killed…we haven’t seen one of the furia in a fortnight, maybe longer. Marauders have taken over. They do not fear Wrath. They do not fear anything. They drink and they steal and they use our women.”
Roan realized he had stiffened when the man said his father’s name. Slowly, he let out the breath trapped in his throat. “I’m sorry. But we are not marauders.”