by David Estes
“There’s nothing here,” Roan finally said, startling her away from her thoughts. He delicately closed another charred book.
“Unless the important parts were burned,” Rhea said, thankful for the break in the silence. The break from her thoughts.
“Maybe,” Roan said, sounding frustrated.
“Brother.” Rhea softened her voice. “Roan. Like you said, we are in this together. We’ll find something.”
Her words seemed to placate him, and he went back to searching through the pile. Wrath, she thought. My brother acts like a puppy. Peacemaker? Hah! I could destroy him with a word.
A furia entered, carrying a strange object. She handed it to Rhea, turned, and departed.
“What is it?” Roan asked.
Rhea inspected the object, feeling the grooves with her fingertips. “A sliver of wood.”
Roan frowned, shifting to look over her shoulder. “It has markings,” he said.
“Words,” Rhea said. “In WA you shall find the truth.”
“WA?” Roan said. “Western Archives?”
Rhea nodded. What else could it mean? “It has to be here somewhere. The truth. A clue. Something.”
“We’ve been through everything three times. There’s nothing here.”
Rhea considered the problem. “The Western Oracle had to know that years might pass before anyone went looking for information on her. She was an outcast, sentenced to be burned at the stake as a witch. Even speaking her name in the west is taboo.”
Roan nodded, his eyes widening with understanding. “She wouldn’t have hidden the clue in something that could be easily destroyed.”
“Check the bindings. Look for false bottoms. Anything where something could be hidden.”
Together, they searched, ripping books apart, tearing the bindings, cutting off covers. Rhea hit something hard, like iron. “Here,” she said. She peeled away the cover of a book—Fatal Prophecies: Volume I—to uncover a small metal box with a basic copper latch. Her eyes met Roan’s and he nodded.
“Open it.”
She did, and a key rattled out. It was small, iron. There was nothing else inside the box.
Roan said, “Look for another box.”
A while later, he said, “Got it.” In his hands was another metal box, this one thicker, sealed with a lock.
“Give it to me,” Rhea said. Roan handed it over, and she fitted the key into the lock and turned. The box sprang open. Inside was a single sheet of parchment, folded a dozen times to fit. She pushed down the corners and read what it said aloud:
Seeker of Truth, find the hoard of Knowledge,
And Find Me.
I am old, but I will see this land returned to Peace.
I will see Prophecy fulfilled.
I will die when it is Time.
Rhea had the urge to destroy the paper. “This is useless,” she said. “It means nothing. More cryptic sayings that any soothsayer of the east could’ve spouted.”
Roan didn’t seem nearly as disappointed. “I don’t think so,” he said. “It says she’s alive, the Oracle. She must be, don’t you see? The land has not been returned to peace, and her prophecy has only begun to be fulfilled.”
Rhea considered it, still skeptical. If this woman really was as powerful as everyone said she was, and she really had created the fatemarks, was it possible she’d found a way to extend her life well beyond a normal human’s? Or was she human at all? It was said the Orians could live for two full centuries. “But she was burned to death years ago.”
“Maybe not,” Roan said. “Maybe she wanted everyone to think she was dead.”
“If she is alive, how do we find her?”
“Simple,” Roan said, grinning. “Find the hoard of Knowledge.”
“We can search the Western Archives again, but I doubt we’ll find some old half-burned woman hiding amongst the tomes.”
Roan chuckled, and it made Rhea want to scratch his eyes out. She took a deep breath, letting the urge pass. When did she become this violent person? When I killed Jove, she thought. When I realized how good it felt to hurt others, that strange mix of horror and excitement in the pit of my stomach. “What?” she asked.
“The Western Archives are not the hoard of Knowledge, not even close.”
“Then where?”
“Citadel,” Roan said. “Calyp, not Knight’s End, has the largest library in all the Four Kingdoms. And it might not be the Oracle herself that is still alive.”
Rhea frowned. “Then who?”
Roan told her what had happened in the Tangle, about the shapeshifting man-bear who had helped save them.
“If Bear Blackboots really is the Western Oracle’s son and is somehow still alive after all these years, we’ll find him in Citadel.”
Yes, she thought. I knew there was a reason I didn’t kill my brother the moment I found him.
Rhea stood abruptly. “I will return soon,” she said.
Rhea wondered whether she’d made a grievous mistake. If anyone discovered what she’d done…my people will never trust me again.
And all for what?
Love. It was a word she struggled with more and more each day. She loved her cousin, Ennis, so much that she could never have killed him. It wasn’t the same love that he had for her, but it was just as powerful.
Ennis was motionless on the bed, his bloody shirt removed, leaving his chest bare. There was no wound, save for a tiny cut in the flesh of his left breast. The shirt would be burned, all evidence of what she’d done destroyed.
Before the execution, he’d watched her as she’d strapped the bags of sheep’s blood across his heart. He hadn’t asked what she was doing—he already knew. He had played his part as well as she could’ve asked, though she suspected his quote from The Brave Mouse wasn’t part of the play.
The poison on the tip of her retractable knife was called falsedeath. It was extracted from the stem of a rare plant found only in the Tangle. She was surprised to find a small supply available from the apothecary, though she’d had one of her furia obtain it for “Wrath’s business” so as to not arouse suspicion. The fast-acting poison stopped the heart and the lungs, sending the body into a strange stasis, neither dead or alive. A second dose provided within a few days of the first would usually reverse the effects.
That’s what Rhea was counting on now, by Wrath’s will.
She threaded a hand behind Ennis’s neck, tilting his chin back. She opened his lips with two fingers and dribbled the remaining falsedeath on his tongue, then forced his mouth shut.
She waited anxiously. Please, she thought. I will never ask for another thing. Never never never…
He remained still. No breath passed from his lips or nose. She touched his chest, but there was no beating heart.
Rhea collapsed on top of him and wept.
His body jolted and he gasped.
Roan Loren
Rhea had left hours earlier, promising to send up food—which she did. Roan ate the steamed vegetables coated in white sauce and left the roasted quail. Dusk fell while he ate, and he wondered when he would see his friends again. Twice he tried to open the door to wander about the castle, and twice he found it locked. On the second attempt, a furia opened it, telling him to be patient and wait inside, for his own safety.
Who would hurt me? he thought. He laughed, realizing the foolishness of his own question. If the truth of his fatemark became known, everyone in the kingdom might want to hurt him.
He tried to be patient, rummaging through the burnt documents, but finding nothing additional of note. No more iron boxes or keys, maps or clues. He was certain everything pointed to Citadel. We did it, he thought. He couldn’t wait to tell Gwen and Gareth. Gwen especially, who would be thrilled to know they would be journeying to find the woman who gave them their marks. Our purpose.
Roan was thumbing through a sheaf of parchment, mostly destroyed, when Rhea finally returned, still wearing her bloodstained armor. There was something more upbea
t about her demeanor, a spring in her step. “I want you to go to Calyp and find the Oracle, or her son…this Bear Blackboots character,” she said. “You are from the south. You know how to blend in, the customs.”
“I will try,” Roan said, feeling giddy. This was exactly what he wanted.
“When you find either of them, bring them back to me.”
Roan hadn’t expected that, but he thought it made sense. “So they can teach us? So they can show us the path to peace?”
“No,” Rhea said. “Bring them back in chains.”
“What? Why? They might hold the key to peace.”
“Exactly, dear brother. Why would I want peace? I’ve decimated the north. And the east will never agree to an alliance, no matter what the Oracle or her son believes. The south? They are embroiled in civil war, ripe for destruction.”
Roan could feel the horror on his own face, taste the bitterness on his tongue. A question formed on his lips. “Then why do you want them at all?”
“For their power, you fool. Maybe they can give me my own mark, a custom design with the power of my choosing. Perhaps they can even give me more than one. My furia should have powers, too. And if the sorcerer or her son are really still alive, then they also hold the secret to immortality. I wouldn’t mind being immortal, would you? It’s the only way I’ll be able to conquer the Four Kingdoms. And if you’re a good brother, I might let you live, though first I’ll have the Oracle or her son wave their magic fingers and remove your mark. I can’t have you healing people all the time.”
The sick feeling he’d felt earlier returned. Who was this madwoman? He couldn’t believe she was related to him, to his mother, even to his father, who never tried to conquer the entire Four Kingdoms. “Rhea, sister, this isn’t right. There is no need for more violence.”
“Oh, I know,” Rhea said lightly. “But I like it too much to stop now.”
A thought from earlier floated to the top of Roan’s mind. “Rhea, where are Bea and Leo? You said they’re safe, but where are they?”
Rhea smiled wickedly. “Chained in the dungeons. They’ve been naughty. Can’t have little demons like them running around, can we?”
“I…” Roan had no idea what to say to her. Why did I show her my mark in the first place? Why did I reveal myself to her? Why didn’t I listen to my friends, who warned me against such brash action? His fatemark pulsed in his chest, as it had before, calming him. Somehow, for some strange purpose unknown to him now, this was the path he needed to take. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t the master of his future. “I won’t bring the Oracle back to you in chains. I will find her, but I can’t do that.”
“Dear brother, but I think you will. Bring them in.”
Two forms were pushed roughly through the door by a group of furia.
Gwendolyn offered him a dark stare and mouthed I’m sorry, while Gareth only shrugged. Both were in chains, stripped of all weapons.
Roan shook his head.
“We found them loitering near the castle gates. My spies in the city had already informed me that a man matching your description was seen wandering the city, asking strange questions about me. He had two companions with him. I assume these are the two.”
There was no use in lying. Roan nodded.
“This is the missing Gareth Ironclad?” Rhea guessed. “Your friend.”
Again, Roan nodded.
“Then who is this beautiful witch of the iron forest? Another friend? Evidently this armor of hers is somehow fused over her skin, though we tried to remove it.”
What was Gwen to Roan? A friend? More than that? Did the label really matter now? He said nothing.
“I see. Well, whatever she is, she put up quite a fight when we found her. King Ironclad, too. They killed over a dozen furia before we were able to subdue them. The witch killed ten of them. Apparently she moved like the wind. She wouldn’t happen to bear a mark, too, would she?”
“Obviously,” Gareth said. One of the furia backhanded him across the face. Roan stepped forward to help him, but two of the red women blocked his path. Gwen, even in chains, threw herself at their attackers, but two more furia muscled her to the ground.
Roan said, “No!” and tried to break through. Strong arms held him back.
Gwen raised her chin proudly, launching words between clenched teeth and a waterfall of silver hair. “I bear the heromark. Something you will never understand.”
Spitting out a wad of blood, Gareth said, “Western hospitality is everything they say it is.”
“Bravo,” Rhea said, her eyes meeting Roan’s. “Your friends are providing more entertainment than this city has seen in days. Isn’t that what you declared your trade to be to my guard at the gates? Entertainers?”
Roan said nothing, his jaw clenched. He’d come here in good faith to be reunited with his sister in the hopes that together they could change things. Instead he found a monster sitting on the western throne.
“What do you want from us?”
Rhea smiled. “You have your orders. Travel to Calyp. Bring the Oracle or her son back. In chains, if necessary.”
Roan could feel Gwen’s eyes searching his face, but he didn’t turn to look at her. “And if I refuse?”
“Then I kill the iron witch,” Rhea said. “Slowly. Piece by piece.”
“She is nothing to me,” Roan lied.
Rhea raised an eyebrow, laughing lightly. “You may be entertaining, brother, but you are no actor. You are in love with her, I could see it on your face the moment she walked through that door.”
Roan couldn’t help but to look at Gwen now, to see her reaction. Her lips were tight, pressed into a line. Her yellow eyes a mystery. She said nothing. But Gareth’s expression was unmistakable, as easy to read as a freshly penned stream message. Sadness. Anger. Betrayal.
Roan remembered their kiss, the way Gareth had reacted. He remembered their time spent together in the locket, how he’d awoken to Gareth sleeping in the crook of his arm. He remembered the way the beautiful Ironclad boy liked to hide his true feelings behind japes and an arrogant smile. And he realized:
He’s in love with me.
And, despite what Rhea had assumed, it wasn’t just Gwen Roan was in love with.
It was both of them.
Roan pushed down the thought, which made no difference to their present situation. “What about Gareth?” Roan asked, turning back to his sister. “What will you do with him?”
“The Ironclad will be ransomed.”
“For what? He’s already the lawful heir and his brother won’t turn himself in.”
“I don’t want his brother. I want the ironmarked one. Beorn Stonesledge.”
Gareth scoffed. “He won’t fight for you.”
“Then he will die. Either way, he won’t fight for the east either. We all know he’s your greatest weapon. Well, perhaps this iron witch was the greatest weapon, but she won’t be much use anymore.”
“You’re evil,” Roan said. It was a pointless comment, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. He was still shocked by how quickly things had turned against him.
“Let Wrath be my judge,” she said. “Take Ironclad to the tower cell. Give him a nice view of the east, so he can watch the destruction of his people. Haul the witch below. She can rot next to the twins.”
“Don’t do this,” Roan said as the furia hauled his friends to their feet. “Please. This isn’t you. This isn’t what our parents would have wanted.”
“You know nothing about me, what I’ve been through. You abandoned me, just like everyone else.”
“Roan, I’m sorry,” Gwen said, earning herself a final punch in the stomach. Gareth said nothing, though his eyes met Roan’s.
And then they were gone.
Thirty-Nine
The Southern Empire, the Southron Gates, near Sousa
Raven Sandes
Hot wind gusted against Raven’s face as they rode full tilt toward the wall, Iknon’s muscular shoulders undulating beneath
her with each stride. She clung to the harness with one hand, her fingers aching, but strong and well-calloused from years of training amongst the guanero. Her other hand gripped her whip, trembling with readiness.
Fire was already holding her sword aloft, flames kissing the steel. The other guanero were equally prepared for battle, their weapons drawn and slashing through the air. Goggin rode no-handed, using his strong legs to clamp the sides of his steed, his hands clutching his dual scimitars.
Several of the wall’s defenders had finally noticed their approach, shouting a warning. Even in the dark, their white-powdered faces were visible, almost glowing under the moon and starlight, like oval orbs of light. They dropped to one knee and fired longbows, but their arrows went long, splashing into the waters of the Spear.
They fired again, and one of the guanik released a cry of agony, tripping and tumbling headlong, the long shaft of an arrow protruding from its neck. Somewhere beneath the beast, its rider was crushed as it rolled. Raven and the rest of the guanero knew that stopping meant death; in any case, there was nothing they could do for their fallen sister—she had gone to meet the gods in the sky.
Without a command, the guanero closed ranks around their empress, creating a human and reptilian shield of leather and scales. Protecting her was the priority.
As arrows continued to whistle past, occasionally hitting their targets, Raven glanced to the west. The slave army no longer appeared as ants, their features coming into detail. Only a few rode horses, at the front, and their clothing appeared newer, cleaner. At least one was a Dreadnoughter, while the others were a mix of Terans and Phanecians. Strange, Raven thought. The rest ran on foot, their skin as red as rusty iron.
One of them fell, then another. Who is shooting at them? Raven wondered. She looked about her to see if any of their own archers had stopped to fire on the enemy. But no, they were all following Fire’s command to charge the Gates.