by J. E. Klimov
How did word make it all the way here?
It seemed that despite his efforts, his past was nipping at his heels. Even in an isolated country like Camilla, people were looking for him. Not looking, hunting. The marauders even knew his name, and Bence was sure hundreds more knew as well. The only saving grace was his hair. The mysterious change in color would throw many off. As his hand traced his neck, he felt the scar.
Like a knee-jerk reaction, Bence equipped his boots and slinked over to Ami. Her chest rose up and down in a steady motion. Her eyelashes fluttered, but she remained asleep. He dug around her until he felt a hard object. The compass. It was tucked in one of her pockets. As he held his breath, Bence lifted the blanket slightly and leaned forward. He slipped his hand under the lip of the pocket and grasped the compass between his index finger and thumb. He paused. When Ami didn’t move, he pulled it out in one swift motion and dropped the blanket. Ami rolled onto her back and flung her arm against the rock. Her wavy locks covered half her face. The spunk hidden beneath her delicate outer appearance told Bence that she probably journeyed with him to escape her lackluster life.
Bence wiped his brow and frowned at his reflection in the compass. He was stealing again. Stealing and running. But if that’s what it took to remove himself from being a danger to Ami, then so be it. He just needed to navigate north, and he would find the port where a ship would take him to Irelle. He studied the compass, and its pointer quivered and spun.
He stuffed half of the leftover meal and wet clothes into his satchel, leaving the rest for Ami. Darkness swallowed him as he inched away from the campfire. A chill crept up his fingers, arms, and seeped into his bare chest. Even his heart felt cold. Ami was just a speck in the distance, partially obstructed by shrubbery. A sense of familiarity tickled the back of his throat. Bence swallowed and forced himself northward.
CHAPTER
12
Bence reached a clearing where grass thinned into short patches and a dirt road began. The back of his neck burned as the sun’s rays radiated without mercy. Wiping sweat from his forehead was like pushing a boulder off his flesh. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He had followed the compass north for hours, and the journey seemed like a never-ending hill. When he plopped down to rest, ferns and wildflowers tickled his arms, eliciting a faint smile. Birds sang and butterflies fluttered their yellow wings. Bence couldn’t believe he felt like hell in such a wondrous place. I wonder if Irelle will look half as beautiful as this. I can’t give up now.
Whenever Bence was tempted to give up and turn around, he repeated the goal in his mind over and over. Studying the calluses across his palms, Bence centered himself. If he could survive the trip to Irelle, he would be rewarded with a happy and peaceful life. He could stop running. Start anew. The torment of his past and his restlessness would be no more. It had to be.
Brushing the grass beneath his palms, Bence let his imagination go wild. He pictured walking down a long winding road. At the end stood a crowd beneath a large archway engraved with the Irellian lion’s paw, welcoming him home. He could see it now. Smiles from sun-kissed faces, handshakes, and pats on the back. Bence didn’t know what type of work he would do, but he was willing to accept anything. Maybe use his skills as a trainer for their armies, if they had one. At sunset, he’d amble to a simple hut he would call home and relax by a hearth. If Irelle had lakes or ponds, he would want to live right next to one. In his free time, he would fish and swim. As a gust of wind rolled by, Bence imagined a crisp, spicy taste: his latest kill roasting in local spices that intertwined with the smoky fire. While he waited, he would lie on the ground and stare at the stars.
When he inhaled, he gagged. The stench of fish ruined his fantasy.
“All the more reason to get going. C’mon, Bence. You can do this,” he whispered as he stood. “Paradise is just across the ocean.”
A horn blared in the distance. Bence’s head jerked to the noise. The horn blared again. Pocketing the compass, he sprinted up another hill. When he reached the peak, his mouth hung open. A bustling village below hugged a rocky shoreline. Pumping his fist into the air, he fought back the crash and ebb of emotions.
“I can finally be rid of this place!”
He wove around thorny bushes and down the steep slope. Dirt sprayed into the air when he slid on a loose rock; he clawed the soil until he snatched a secure branch. After catching his breath, Bence plucked a lone thorn from his index finger, and then continued walking. The closer he approached the village, the faster he ran as the slope flattened.
At the base of the hill was a wide side-road lined with boxes. A door swung open with a bang in the building to the left, revealing a bow-legged man struggling with a bucket. The man dumped fish heads and bones into a cart and disappeared into the building as quickly as he appeared. Cats mewed as they lurked by the cart, sniffing intently. Bence strode through the side-road, covering his nose with the crook of his arm to evade the stench.
Entering the main street, Bence almost dropped his satchel at the sheer size of the village. It was significantly larger than Bleeding Heart. This road stretched for miles, hugged by clusters of clay-tiled roofs, sheltering side-roads from view. He grew hypnotized by people weaving in and out of the crowd, their robes billowing in the breeze.
Bence stepped onto a narrow dirt road that could only fit two people side by side. Men and women brushed past him, jostling him left and right. Wooden signs hung above each building while windows displayed various goods, from snacks to hand-sewn garments. A woman ran into him.
“Excuse me,” he blurted, but the woman shot him an accusing look. She wrinkled her nose and covered it with her sleeve before shuffling away. Bence glanced down at himself. Splotches of pink covered his tunic, and mud caked his pants. He shrugged and continued walking.
Crossing the road, he craned his neck for signs of ships. Eventually, he reached the harbor. Wooden panels stretched over jagged rocks. Merchants roasted nuts every few feet. Children ran in circles, chasing seagulls.
One ship bobbed at the dock. Bence steeled himself and strode toward it. A man in a brown tunic and trousers leaned against a wooden pole, blocking the passage into the vessel.
“Excuse me. Where is this ship headed?”
The man scratched his white beard and eyed Bence. “And who are you?”
“A traveler,” Bence said. “I’m looking for passage to Irelle. I was told many ships trade with them.”
He slapped his knee and laughed. “No one travels to Irelle. There’s a trading hub in Dunyan Territory, adjacent to Irelle. That’s where all the trade is done on that continent. We see Irellians, Foti, and even Norlenders! Though there are no Dunya left, I wonder why they still call it that…” He trailed off and stared into the sky.
Bence tapped his foot, waiting for him to continue. The old man peeked at him from the corner of his eye.
“You’re still here, eh?”
“Can this ship take me to that trading post or not?”
“The ship you need is arriving overnight. It’ll leave mid-day tomorrow.”
“I see.” Bence turned back toward town.
“You’re welcome,” the man said sardonically as Bence trudged away.
Bence re-entered the main street and scanned the signs. Spotting an inn, he made his way to the entrance. Ignoring the stares around the room, he approached a burly man behind the bar.
“I’d like a room for the night.” Bence slammed his satchel onto the table.
“That’ll be three bronze coins. I’ll also accept fresh seafood if you got any,” the man replied, not looking up.
“I’m related to the Deranian royal family. My relatives will reward you handsomely for letting me room for free.” The only thing of value he had was Isabel’s ring and the black pearl, and he refused to give that as payment.
The barman looked up and cracked his knuckles. “Deran? That tiny island down south?”
“Yes,” Bence said, straightening as high as he
could.
“Deran always kept to itself. There’s no way anyone, let alone royalty, would find reason to travel to Camilla.” He jerked his thumb at the entrance. “Get out before I call you out for being an imposter.”
“Don’t make threats you’ll regret,” Bence growled, hand inching toward his dagger.
A hand thrust in between the two men, holding a leather pouch. It fell with a jingle onto the counter. “Make it two rooms. I want dinner brought up and a fresh pair of clothes for this one.”
Bence’s heart jumped at the voice.
“What?” Ami said with a devilish grin. “Didn’t expect to see me again?”
CHAPTER
13
“You can’t do this. I’m the king!”
Isabel gazed over her shoulder at the giant iron door. Acid pooled at the pit of her stomach. Dante’s hands wrapped around the window bars. The metallic rattling chilled her soul each time he shook them.
“Dante, you’re not a prisoner. But you’re sick. And I’m keeping you here until we can fix you.” She hugged her waist as tears welled in her eyes. “You have food, water, and a clean bed. These guards will ensure your needs are met until I find a suitable doctor to examine you, and until then, Raiden will conduct frequent visits.”
Her innards twisted, unsure if there was anyone on this island that could save him other than Raiden. And yet, in her eyes, Raiden was still as trustworthy as a wolf with a rabbit. She couldn’t shake the memories of Dante’s ice cold eyes boring into hers the other night. He never laid a hand on her before; it was as if he was once again possessed by something.
“Isn’t that correct?” Isabel snapped at the two guards. They jumped in place and nodded.
“Yes, Your Majesty!” they saluted in unison.
No one could know that the king of Deran attacked his own queen. Until Isabel could figure this out, she was determined that every servant and citizen believed Dante was simply ill. It was the only explanation when those very two guards burst into her room the night Dante attacked her.
Without another word, Isabel pushed past the guards and swept down the spiral staircase. Her vision blurred as tears finally flooded her face and rained onto the floor. The man she married had tried to kill her. She repeated this thought over and over in her mind in hopes it would knock the sense of guilt that dogged her steps.
It would’ve been better if he had never returned.
When Isabel reached the library, she collapsed onto the chaise and buried her head into the sea of pillows. The skeletal hands of isolation choked her. There was no one in this castle whom she felt close to, and while she held a good rapport with all the tribes, she had no friends.
The door creaked. Isabel shot up and aimed her armlet toward the entrance. A ball of fire erupted in the palm of her hand “Who is it?” she growled.
Ducking from the shadows, Raiden stepped into the room. He closed the door behind him slowly. “It’s only me, Your Majesty.”
His tone of voice was too smooth. Too calm. “Only you, huh? Well, thank goodness for that,” she spat, relinquishing the flames. “Dante’s most trusted advisor.”
“Your advisor as well.” Raiden gestured toward a lounge chair. “May I?”
Crossing her arms, Isabel snorted. “Are you planning on strangling me too?”
As a frown bloomed on his lips, he sat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, weaving his fingers together. “I can only imagine how confused you must feel.”
Isabel skimmed the book shelves and focused on the earthy scent. Her mind was too clouded with thoughts to deal with Raiden. “That’s none of your concern. But if you’re looking for something to do, please send out word to the Deranians and all the tribes that Dante is ill and will not be making any appearances until he recovers.”
“Ill from what?”
Isabel finally locked eyes with Raiden. With each spoken word, she tried to express a sense of authority, but he’d caught her at her most vulnerable moment. “They don’t need to know specifics,” she replied wearily. “That is all we will tell them until we figure out what’s going on. Can you imagine what will happen if they find out he was trying to kill me?”
Each stud in his nose glistened in the candlelight. “Of course. May I ask what happened?”
Irritation burned at her fingertips. Isabel wanted to rip out all his piercings. “Don’t play dumb.” She clamped her mouth shut as her voice wavered.
He squeezed his hands tighter, but his face remained neutral. “I don’t play games.”
Isabel covered her face with a hand. She would not cry in front of this stranger, but every time she opened her mouth, she hiccupped.
His arm curled around her shoulders. Isabel flinched, but Raiden locked her in place.
“Please, let me go.” Isabel’s voice was limited to a whisper.
“Tell me what happened.”
His voice tempted her to relax, to cry on his shoulder, but as soon as he stroked her cheek, Isabel wrenched away his unnaturally icy finger. Anger burned the lingering chill away as she mustered for words.
“Do not ever touch me again!”
Raiden retracted his hand and played with the largest piercing on his earlobe. “I’m so sorry, Queen Isabel. I was merely trying to comfort you. I meant no harm.”
Footsteps pounded down the hall and the door burst open, banging against the wall. The head guard unsheathed his sword, panting. “Your Majesty, are you alright?”
Her gaze shot back to Raiden, who sat back with a look of amusement on his face.
“Queen Isabel, you certainly aren’t going to sic your men after me for simply asking you what happened to the king? Why, that’s borderline suspicious.”
Raiden’s tone lacked bite, but Isabel’s bones rattled with fury.
As he stood, he rose his hands in the air. “If you wish to kick me out, I won’t resist. Just remember, I was the one who brought Dante back to you. And because he isn’t well, I had thought I would be able to help him get better.”
“Just say the word, Your Majesty,” the guard rumbled.
Isabel studied Raiden as he smiled at the guard. His words lingered like an echo in the valley of her mind. Her heart desired nothing more than to kick him into the wrath of a tornado, but one single invisible string held that command back.
Squaring her shoulders, she said, “Captain, stand down.”
He fumbled with his sword. “B-but, Queen Isabel. My job is to protect you, and I heard you shouting like I never have before!”
An overwhelming calm settled in her body. The four stones in her armlet radiated, casting a penumbra over the two men. “I appreciate your protection, Captain. You’re doing your job. However… it was merely a misunderstanding between myself and Raiden,” she paused, focusing her entire attention to the man in the cherry leather vest, “I’m confident it won’t happen again.”
His hair flopped over his face as he bowed deeply. “You have my word. Again, my deepest apologies.”
The captain sheathed his weapon with an assertive click. He, too, bowed at Isabel and disappeared out the door. “Don’t hesitate to call me, Queen Isabel,” he said, voice low and stern.
Once Raiden righted himself, Isabel circled him. “And to answer your question, it was all about you. He said, ‘Don’t you ever disrespect Raiden again. You will listen to everything he says. And you will heed his advice at all times.’”
He caught her eye as she passed. “I’m shocked to hear this. I’m just your advisor, nothing more.” He sighed.
Isabel held her breath to suppress her hiccups from returning. She was unsure if she had made the right decision, but Raiden might be Dante’s only chance. The wave of fear and anguish ebbed as silence stretched between them. Raiden reached into his vest and extended a handkerchief.
“I’m not crying.” She whacked it from his hand and stopped pacing. Isabel studied the tattered spines of unread books as she blinked her eyes dry. The book her gaze settled on was titled, “
Between Tuuli and Humans.”
When the last tear fell, she faced Raiden once more. Hiding her hands behind her back, she stretched her spine so she could stand tall. “You’re dismissed.”
“I have a confession to make.”
Isabel froze.
Raiden pocketed the handkerchief. He slowly rolled the sleeves of his tunic, revealing the indiscernible, angular characters tattooed on his forearms. The black ink glistened as if still fresh.
“I am a Healer. These are the markings to prove it.”
Isabel’s hands shot to her sai. The opal, sapphire, amber, and ruby in her armlet glowed to life. Her heart thundered in alarm; she knew there was something wrong about him. “That can’t be. Healers haven’t been around for scores of years.” Sucking in jagged breaths, she examined the tattoos. “Don’t move,” she said. “I will incinerate you.” Foti’s Ruby flashed so brightly, the room flooded with blood red light.
Raiden’s frown deepened. “In what way have I threatened you? Are you going to destroy me for what I am?”
Eyes narrowing, Isabel muttered, “Go on.”
“I have lived in Chailara Hills for this very reason. The discrimination against Healers.”
The sentence doused her with guilt; it wasn’t the way her parents explained it. “It’s n-not a matter of discrimination, Raiden. The generation before me had to strip the talismans from all the Healers. Yes, Healers had once done great things: they cared for the wounded and rose the dead; however, once my mother and father discovered Healers were abusing their powers by manipulating the resurrected, something had to be done! Ever since then, only the chief of each tribe and the reigning monarch were allowed to possess stones of power.” Isabel released her grips on the sai. The power that surged through her veins drained. He was right, though. What would she look like if she attacked him just because he was a Healer and not because he committed an actual crime?