by David Estes
“Still, we don’t know you. And two men travelling with a woman”—he motioned toward Gwen—“is most unusual. Be on your way now.”
Roan nodded, but the door had already closed.
When he turned back toward Gwen and Gareth, both their mouths were pulled into thin lines. “What does it mean?” he asked. “Why aren’t the furia patrolling the west?”
Gwen said, “Isn’t it obvious?”
“The west is preparing for war,” Gareth finished.
After weeks of nothing but stale bread, boiled roots, and overripe berries, the fried eggs and stewed carrots, onions and tomatoes were the best thing Roan had ever tasted. And, based on the ecstasy on his friends’ faces, apparently the meat was equally tasty.
“You still don’t eat meat,” Gareth commented, his mouth half full. The meal had done what Roan and Gwen had been unable to do: loosen his tongue.
“No.”
“But Calypsians eat meat.”
“Yes.”
“Fine.” Gareth took an exaggerated bite of meat, letting juice dribble down his chin. Roan had to look away. “Have your secrets. You’ve got enough of them.” He grabbed a sheep’s leg and stalked off.
“What is with him?” Roan said.
“He has demons just like the rest of us,” Gwen said. “Give him time.”
Roan wasn’t certain time was the answer, but he sat and finished his meal, mulling over what Gareth had said about his secrets, wondering if he was referring to his skinmark, his lineage, or something still hidden, like his feelings for Gwendolyn.
It wasn’t until after Roan and Gwen laid down to sleep that he heard Gareth return. Roan cracked his eyelids and watched as Gareth snapped the leg bone in half, sucked out the marrow, and then tossed the remains in the fire, before laying down to sleep.
“The Western Road,” Gareth declared brightly the next day, when they finally stumbled upon a long, narrow path of smooth stones and dirt, winding its way both to the east and the west.
“I thought it would be more impressive,” Roan said.
“You should see the Bridge of Triumph,” Gareth muttered, but didn’t elucidate further.
They stepped onto the road, gazing along the path. Roan half-expected to spy a cloud of dust moving toward them, a dozen marauders riding full-tilt in their direction. But nothing moved. The road was quiet and empty.
Without a word, they headed west, traveling faster than before on the even terrain.
The first town they came to was shuttered. An untethered horse roamed aimlessly between the wooden structures, nibbling on tufts of grass sprouting up. He was white with black speckles, and though his ribs were starting to show, he was still well-muscled and strong-looking. Roan patted his head and fed him a carrot, which he gobbled up. “Whoa boy,” he said. “What happened here?” The horse only sneezed in response.
They found the first body outside the inn.
She was young, perhaps thirteen, maybe a year or two younger or older. Her throat had been cut.
Roan’s stomach roiled. Though he didn’t want to look too closely, based on the lack of decomposition, she’d been killed recently. “This isn’t the west I was told about,” he said.
“Who are the savages now?” Gwen said, but there wasn’t venom in her tone. Only sadness.
Gareth said, “Every kingdom has bad people. They hide. They wait. And as soon as the rulers begin to unravel, they pounce.”
“Even the east?” Roan asked, turning away from the body, trying not to gag.
“Of course,” Gareth said. “Our prisons are used as much as any.”
There were more bodies inside the inn. The tavern, too. No one was spared. There were broken schooners everywhere. The floors were sticky with ale and blood. Dry goods had been spilled between the pantry and the door. The larder was empty, as was the mead cellar.
“They took everything,” Gwen said. “Marauders.”
“But why did they have to kill everyone?” Roan asked.
“Why does a wolf hunt a rabbit?” Gareth said. “Because it’s what he is.”
Roan shook his head. Humans were not wolves. And yet, it was the only explanation for what was all around him. “We should bury them,” he said.
“There are too many,” Gwen said. “It will take three days.”
“We can burn them,” Gareth said.
“No,” Roan snapped. “No.”
Gwen ducked her head to catch his eye. “We will do it, Gareth and I. You load that horse up with our bags, water him. We’ll take him with us.”
Roan hadn’t told anyone about the two children his guardian had burned in Calypso, a moment that changed his life forever. And yet Gwen seemed to know exactly what he needed at this particular moment. He nodded. “I can help you with the bodies. Then I’ll see to the horse.”
“More secrets,” Gareth muttered, refusing to meet Roan’s eye.
They used a cart to gather the bodies in the center of the dead village, finishing the funeral pyre off with wooden doors and shutters from the abandoned structures. Gwen and Gareth stayed to light the pyre and watch it burn, while Roan took care of the horse. Though he knew little about horses, he was no longer uncomfortable with them, ever since his long ride from Barrenwood to Ferria and on to Raider’s Pass.
It was strange how the memory of the journey was already slipping away into a hazy past.
He found a brush inside the stables, and used it to comb the knots out of the mare’s pearl-white mane. “You’re a clever horse, aren’t you?” he said. “They took all the other horses, but not you. You hid from them. Aye? Am I right?” The horse chuffed in response. Next he found rainwater that had gathered in an open barrel. The horse lapped at it greedily. Finally, he slung the bags over its back, tying them with ropes under its midsection. The marauders had left no saddles—they were far too valuable—but Roan located a thick blanket, which he draped over the horse’s back. “We’re not going to ride you until you get your strength back,” he promised. The horse whinnied.
“We should call him Horse,” Gareth said from behind.
“Original,” Roan said.
“The Horse?”
Roan couldn’t do this, not right now, couldn’t laugh and pretend everything was the same as it had been before the battle at Raider’s Pass. The prince had changed too much, was too volatile. “I’m sorry I kept so many secrets from you. Before. I didn’t know you. I couldn’t read you.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t.”
“You’re my friend.”
“Right. My friend. We’re all friends here. I only came with you because I had nowhere else to go.”
The words were knives, but Roan didn’t care. He let them cut him to ribbons, taking a step closer. “After we find the Western Archives and get what we’re looking for, we’ll return to the east with you. We’ll make this right.” Until he said it, Roan didn’t know he was considering it. I am. I will.
But Gareth only mock-laughed. “Right. The king of the west will convince the east to accept their fool-brained prince back into the fold, no questions asked. Thanks, but no thanks.”
Roan said, “Gareth,” but he’d already left the stables.
Roan stood there for a long time, just breathing, stroking the horse’s mane.
At some point, he realized it wasn’t only his breath he was hearing. He whirled around, letting out a startled sound. The horse whined beside him, perhaps sensing his unease.
The boy he’d first met at Raider’s Pass in the midst of the battle stood before him. The one who’d called him the Peacemaker.
The one who’d killed Guy Ironclad.
The one who’d tried to kill Gareth Ironclad.
“Kings’ Bane,” Roan breathed. He took a step back. Roan was unarmed, and he could see the flash of a knife as the boy shifted his stance.
“You’re a hard person to find. I can’t sense you the way I can the others. It’s taken
me three days. And I travel fast.” His words were too light for what he was, what Roan had seen him do.
Roan took another step back. “What do you want?”
“Don’t be scared. I only want to talk,” Bane said.
“Talk?” The word sounded foreign after what had transpired the last time they’d met.
“Yes. We’re on the same side here. We always have been. We’re part of the same prophecy. My goal is peace in the Four Kingdoms. And you are the Peacemaker. We are two sides of the same coin. Don’t you see?”
Roan didn’t see anything but a troubled boy who’d tried to kill one of his friends. “You’re killing innocent people,” he said.
The boy frowned, his pale scalp wrinkling. “Innocent? No one is innocent these days. Least of all the monarchies that have driven their people to more than a century of war. That man you saved? King Gareth Ironclad? He is a murderer, just like his father was.”
“You don’t know what he is. He’s my friend.”
“Friend? How can you make peace by befriending the enemy?”
The question pounded on the core of the ideals Roan had clung to his entire life, as he’d watched the Four Kingdoms tear themselves apart, as the Southern Empire had become embroiled in civil war. “That’s the only way to make peace.”
“No. You’re wrong, friend.”
“I’m not your friend.”
“Then I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you, too.”
Roan backed up another step. “I will not fight you,” he said. “I am done with violence.”
“I didn’t mean today.” Bane seemed amused by Roan’s response to his threat, his lips curling on both sides. “I’m giving you a second chance to do the right thing. If you kill Gareth Ironclad, I won’t have to.”
“He’s already refused to be king. He’s not your next target.” As the words spilled from Roan’s tongue, they tasted bitter. How could he protect Gareth while potentially sentencing his brother to death? And yet he knew he would do the same thing a hundred times in a row if necessary. A thousand times.
“Doesn’t matter,” Bane said. “He’s still the heir. He’s still the threat to peace.”
Roan thought of his broken, troubled friend. “He is no threat. I don’t know if he ever was, but he’s not anymore.”
“It doesn’t change what I have to do. Eight monarchs have to die.”
“How many are dead so far?” Roan knew of at least three.
“Four,” Bane said. “Sun Sandes is dead.”
“What?” Roan knew he shouldn’t be surprised by the news, not after having seen what Bane was capable of. And yet, having grown up in Calypso, learning of the empress’s death rocked him to the core.
“Do you care that I killed her?”
Roan hated himself for saying it, but… “No. I don’t.” He despised the Sandes and their rule, just as he despised all the monarchies waging war.
“See? We’re not so different.” Bane’s words were so close to his own thoughts that a shiver of unease rolled down his spine.
Roan swallowed the feeling away, because this was a rare opportunity to gather information. “Are you killing two rulers in each kingdom?”
Bane nodded. “One is dead in each so far. One more to go.”
“And in the east?” Roan already knew the answer. He was just delaying, giving himself time to think.
“King Oren Ironclad is dead. Gareth is next in line.”
“Then you’ll have to go through me,” Roan said.
“I thought you were done with violence, cousin?”
“I’m not your cousin. And I’m warming up again.”
“Very well. I will see you soon. But first I have other business to attend to.”
When Roan blinked, Bane was gone, disappearing like he’d never existed at all.
“His name is The Horse,” Roan said, when he rejoined Gwen and Gareth out on the road. He looked for some kind of a reaction from Gareth, but got nothing back.
Gwen said, “Whatever you say, Peacemaker.”
They started off, with Roan leading The Horse.
“What’s wrong?” Gwen asked, after they’d been walking in silence for a while.
“You mean, besides that town being massacred?” Roan said.
“Sorry,” Gwen said. “I just thought there was something else.”
Roan realized he was doing it again—falling into the lies, the secrets. He’d been to the brink of death with these two and yet he still wasn’t willing to trust them? “There is,” he said. “I saw Bane.”
“What?” Gwen and Gareth said at the same time.
Gareth drew his sword.
“Relax. He’s gone.”
Gareth frowned, but sheathed his blade. “Did he say anything?” he asked evenly.
“He said we’re on the same side. The side of peace.”
Gareth scoffed. “He tries to murder me and says he wants peace?”
“I believe him,” Roan said. “I think in his twisted mind he believes that killing eight monarchs will bring peace to the Four Kingdoms. He spoke of a prophecy, and I’m certain he meant the Western Oracle’s teachings.”
“And you agree with him?”
“Of course not! I’m just saying that he believes it.”
“Did he say anything else?” Gareth asked.
Roan nodded. “He asked me to…”
“To what?”
“To kill you.”
None of them had said much after that. Roan confirmed he wasn’t planning on killing Gareth, at least not yet. Gareth thought the idea of Roan killing anyone was hilarious. And Gwen said she had the urge to beat them both senseless, although she noted that wouldn’t be difficult since they were both so thin on sense as it was.
Roan told them everything else that Bane had told him, and then all conversation died for most of the day.
By nightfall, they reached the next town, and, to Roan’s relief, this one was full of life.
“Restor,” Gwen said. “The last major stopping place on the Western Road. Knight’s End isn’t far now. Two days. Three at the most.”
“I still think we should pass it by,” Roan said. “It’s too risky.”
“There are hundreds of travelers here,” Gareth said. “None shall take notice of three wayward strangers.”
“Two men and one woman?” Roan said. “We shall stick out like a black eye.”
“I will arrive separately,” Gareth said.
“No,” Roan said quickly. “We stay together.”
“He’s right,” Gwen said. “We have to split up. At least temporarily. We will meet by happenstance at the second inn on the right. Gareth, when you arrive, request a room on the top floor, facing west.”
The dead village they’d passed through earlier popped into Roan’s mind. He said, “This is folly.”
Gareth grinned in the green moonlight. The red moon was naught but a bloody sliver, giving the entire night an eerie complexion. “What? You don’t trust me on my own? I once commanded entire battalions. I’ve fought in many battles. I think I can handle a few outlaws.”
Roan shook his head, but offered no further objection.
They approached the town wearing cloaks to mask their faces, except for Roan, who, with his blond locks and soft features, would fit in here as well as anywhere in the west. Before they reached the edge of the lights, Gareth broke off to the side of the road, disappearing into some tall grass. Roan and Gwen continued on.
Restor, unlike the previous town, was a bustling waystation with torchlit streets filled with hundreds of people leading carts laden with goods, merchants selling wares, cooks offering hot bowls of stew, and grooms trying to attract travelers to the inns they worked at with “the best stables in town!” People seemed to be haggling over everything. The price of a leather cap. The cost of a bowl of soup. The going rate for a room at the nearest inn. Nothing seemed to be set in stone. Strangely, though he was a world and a lifetime away from his childhood home, Restor reminded
Roan of Calypso, where “negotiating” was an art you learned before you could walk. He remembered when his guardian would bring him to the markets. They would take turns trying to get the best price for fruits and vegetables. His guardian had been terrible at it. Roan, however, had taken to it naturally. Once, he’d managed to procure an entire bushel of apples for only a single Dragonmark. Markin Swansea had been so proud.
Aye, he thought. A lifetime ago. Now Markin was dead and Roan was in the west, a place his guardian had always warned him was dangerous to someone like him. Someone marked.
Roan shook away the memories, politely declining two offers from inns on the left, as well as the first one on the right, before stopping and pretending to consider the second on the right, the one they’d agreed with Gareth to meet at.
A young groom approached. He had blond, tousled hair and a crooked smile. His front two teeth stuck out, but they only made him appear friendlier. The innkeeper made a good choice in salesmen, Roan thought. The boy said, “You are lucky. We have one spot left for your horse. It will be cared for as well as you and your mistress.”
“She’s my wife,” Roan said bluntly. Gwen fired a look in his direction, but he ignored it.
“Oh. My apologies. I meant no offense.”
“None taken. How much for room and board for us and our horse?” Roan asked. Gareth had given him some of the coin he’d raided from the Ironclad war chest before they’d separated.
“For you? One Golden or twelve Silvers.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” Roan said, though he had no idea what the going rate was. All he knew was that not haggling would be more suspicious. He had to go lower by at least a third, but if he offered a price too low the groom might take him for a lost cause and walk away. “Eight Silvers and I’ll forget how you twice insulted me and my wife.”
The young boy’s face reddened. “I…yes, you have a deal. My master will be most pleased to have such an astute traveler under his roof.”
Roan handed him The Horse’s reins and flipped the groom a Copper. He caught it with one hand and bit it, grinning from ear to ear. Roan suspected he’d still overpaid, but it was better than making a scene. “I will water, feed, and brush your horse. Does he have a name?”