by Morgan Rice
Kyra sat in her father’s chamber, a small stone room on the upper floors of their fort with high, tapered ceilings and a massive marble fireplace, blackened from years of use, and they each stared in the gloomy silence. They sat on opposite sides of the fire, each on a pile of furs, staring at the crumbling logs as they crackled and hissed.
Kyra’s mind spun from the news as she stroked Leo’s fur, curled up at her feet, and it was still hard to believe it was true. Change had finally come to Escalon, and it felt as if this were the day her life had ended. She stared into the flames, wondering what was left to live for if Pandesia would snatch her away from her family, her fort, from all she knew and loved and wed her to some grotesque Lord Governor. She would rather die.
Kyra usually took comfort in being here, this room, where she had spent countless hours reading, getting lost in tales of valor and sometimes of legends, tales which she never quite knew were fact or fantasy. Her father liked to comb his ancient books and read them aloud, sometimes into the early hours of the morning, chronicles of a different time, a different place. Most of all, Kyra loved the stories of the warriors, of the great battles. Leo was always at her feet and Aidan often joined them; on more than one sunrise, Kyra would return bleary-eyed to her chamber, drunk on the stories. She loved to read even more than she loved weapons, and as she looked at the walls of her father’s chamber, lined with bookcases, filled with scrolls and leather-bound volumes passed down for generations, she wished she could get lost in them now.
But as she glanced at her father, his grim face, it brought back their awful reality. This was no night for reading. She had never seen her father look so disturbed, so conflicted, as if for the first time he was unsure what action to take. Her father, she knew, was a proud man—all of his men were proud—and in the days when Escalon had a king, a capital, a court to rally around, all would have given up their lives for their freedom. It was not her father’s way to surrender, to barter. But the old King had sold them out, had surrendered on their behalf, had left them all in this terrible position. As a fragmented, dispersed army, they could not fight an enemy already lodged in their midst.
“It would have been better to have been defeated that day in battle,” her father said, his voice heavy, “to have faced Pandesia nobly and lost. The old King’s surrender was a defeat anyway—just a long, slow, cruel one. Day after day, year after year, one freedom after the next is taken from us, each one making us slightly less of a man.”
Kyra knew he was right; yet she could also understand King Tarnis’s decision: Pandesia covered half the world. With their vast army of slaves they could have laid waste to Escalon until there was nothing left. They never would have backed down, however many millions of men it took. At least now Escalon was intact, its people alive—if one could call this life.
“For them, this is not about taking our girls,” her father continued, his speech punctuated by the crackling fire. “This is about power. About subjugation. About crushing what is left of our souls.”
Her father stared into the flames and she could see he was staring into his past and his future all at once. Kyra prayed that he would turn and tell her that the time had come to fight, to stand up for what they all believed in, to make a stand. That he would never let her be taken away.
But instead, to her increasing disappointment and anger, he sat there silently, staring, brooding, not offering her the assurances she needed. She had no idea what he was thinking, especially after their earlier argument.
“I remember a time when I served the King,” he said slowly, his deep, strong voice setting her at ease, as it always had, “when all the land was one. Escalon was invincible. We had only to man The Flames to hold back the trolls and the Southern Gate to hold back Pandesia. We were a free people for centuries, and that was always how it was supposed to be.”
He fell silent for a long time, the fire crackling, and Kyra waited impatiently for him to finish, stroking Leo’s head.
“If Tarnis had commanded us to defend the gate,” he continued, “we would have defended it to the last man. All of us would have gladly died for our freedom. But one morning we all woke to find out lands already filled with men,” he said, his eyes widening with agony as if reliving it again before his eyes.
“I know all of this,” Kyra reminded, impatient, tiring of hearing the same story.
He turned to her, his eyes filled with defeat.
“When your own king has given up,” he asked, “when the enemy is already amongst you, what is there left to fight for?”
Kyra fumed.
“Maybe kings do not always merit the title,” she said, no longer having patience. “Kings are just men, after all. And men make mistakes. Perhaps, sometimes, the most honorable route is to defy your king.”
Her father sighed, staring into the fire, not really hearing her.
“We here, of Volis, have lived well compared to the rest of Escalon. They allow us to keep weapons—real weapons—unlike the others, who are stripped of all steel under penalty of death. They let us train, they give us the illusion of freedom—just enough to keep us complacent. Do you know why they have?” he asked, turning to her.
“Because you were the King’s greatest knight,” she replied. “Because they want to afford you honors befitting your rank.”
He shook his head.
“No,” he replied. “It is only because they need us. They need Volis to man The Flames. We are all that stands between Marda and them. Pandesia fears Marda more than we. It is only because we are the Keepers. They patrol The Flames with their own men, their own draftees, but none are as vigilant as we.”
Kyra thought about that.
“I always thought we were above it all, above the reach of Pandesia. But tonight,” he said gravely, turning to her, “I realize that is not true. This news…I have been waiting for something of the sort for years. I did not realize how long. And despite all those years of preparation, now that it has arrived…there is nothing I can do.”
He hung his head and she stared back at him, appalled, feeling indignation welling within her.
“Are you saying you will let them take me?” she asked. “Are you saying you would not fight for me?”
His face darkened.
“You are young,” he said, angry, “naïve. You don’t understand the way of the world. You look at this one fight—not the greater kingdom. If I fight for you, if my men fight for you, we might win one battle. But they will come back, not with a hundred men, or a thousand, or ten thousand—but a sea of men. If I fight for you, I commit all of my people to death.”
His words cut into her like a knife, left her shaking inside, not only his words, but the despair behind them. A part of her wanted to storm out of here, sickened, so disappointed in this man she had once idolized. She felt like crying inside at such betrayal.
She stood, trembling, and scowled down at him.
“You,” she seethed, “you, the greatest fighter of our land—yet afraid to protect the honor of his own daughter?”
She watched his face redden, humiliated.
“Watch yourself,” he warned darkly.
But Kyra would not back down.
“I hate you!” she shouted.
Now it was his turn to stand.
“Do you want all of our people killed?” he yelled back. “All for your honor?”
Kyra could not help herself. For the first time in as long as she could member, she burst into tears, so deeply wounded by her father’s lack of caring for her.
He stepped forward to console her, but she lowered her head and turned away as she cried. Then she caught hold of herself and quickly turned and wiped her tears away, looking to the fire with watery eyes.
“Kyra,” he said softly.
She looked up at him and saw that his eyes were watering, too.
“Of course I would fight for you,” he said. “I would fight for you until my heart stopped beating. I, and all of my men, would die for you. In the war that followed,
you would die, too. Is that what you want?”
“And my slavery?” she shot back. “Is that what you want?”
Kyra knew she was being selfish, that she was putting herself first, and that was not her nature. Of course she would not allow all of her people to die on her behalf. But she just wanted to hear her father say the words: I will fight for you. Whatever the consequences. You come first. You matter most.
But he remained silent, and his silence hurt her more than anything.
“I shall fight for you!” came a voice.
Kyra turned, surprised, to see Aidan entering the room, holding a small spear, trying to put on his bravest look.
“What are you doing here?” her father snapped. “I am speaking with your sister.”
“And I overheard it!” Aidan said, marching inside, as Leo ran over to him, licking him.
Kyra could not help but smile. Aidan shared the same streak of defiance as she, even if he was too young and too small for his prowess to match his will.
“I will fight for my sister!” he added. “Even against all the trolls of Marda!”
She reached over and hugged him and kissed his forehead.
She then wiped her tears and turned back to her father, her glare darkening. She needed an answer; she needed to hear him say it.
“Do I not matter to you more than your men?” she asked him.
He stared back, his eyes filled with pain.
“You matter more to me than the world,” he said. “But I am not merely a father—I am a Commander. My men are my responsibility, too. Can’t you understand that?”
She frowned.
“And where is that line drawn, Father? When exactly do your people matter more than your family? If the abduction of your only daughter is not that line, then what is? I am sure if it were one of your sons taken, you would go to war.”
He scowled.
“This is not about that,” he snapped.
“But isn’t it?” she shot back, determined. “Why is a boy’s life worth more than a girl’s?”
Her father fumed, breathing hard, and loosed his vest, more agitated than she’d ever seen him.
“There is another way,” he finally said.
She stared back, puzzled.
“Tomorrow,” he said slowly, his voice taking on a tone of authority, as if he were talking to his councilmen, “you shall choose a boy. Any boy you like from amongst our people. You shall wed by sundown. When the Lord’s Men come, you will be wed. Untouchable. You will be safe, here with us.”
Kyra stared back, aghast.
“Do you really expect me to marry some strange boy?” she asked. “To just pick someone, just like that? Someone I don’t love?”
“You will!” her father yelled, his face red, equally determined. “If your mother were alive, she would handle this business—she would have handled it long ago, before it came to this. But she is not. You are not a warrior—you are a girl. And girls wed. And that is the end of the matter. If you have not chosen a husband by day’s end, I will choose one for you—and there is nothing more to say on the matter!”
Kyra stared back, disgusted, enraged—but most of all, disappointed.
“So is that how the great Commander Duncan wins battles?” she asked, wanting to hurt him. “Finding loopholes in the law to hide from his occupier?”
Kyra did not wait for a response, but turned and stormed from the room, Leo at her heels, and slammed the thick oak door behind her.
“KYRA!” her father yelled—but the slam muffled his voice.
Kyra marched down the corridor, feeling her whole world shifting beneath her, as if she were no longer walking on steady ground. She realized, with each passing step, that she could no longer stay here. That her presence would endanger them all. And that was something she could not allow.
Kyra could not fathom her father’s words. She would never, ever, marry someone she did not love. She would never just give in and live a domestic life like all the other women. She would rather die first. Didn’t he know that? Did he not know his own daughter at all?
Kyra stopped by her chamber, put on her winter boots, draped herself with her warmest furs, grabbed her bow and staff, and kept walking.
“KYRA!” her father’s angry voice echoed from somewhere down the corridor.
She would not give him a chance to catch up. She kept marching, turning down corridor after corridor, determined to never see Volis again. Whatever lay out there, out in the real world, she would face it head on. She might die, she knew—but at least it would be her choice. At least she wouldn’t live according to someone else’s designs.
Kyra reached the main doors to the fort, Leo beside her, and the servants, standing there beneath the dying torches, stared back at her, puzzled.
“My lady,” one said. “It is late. The storm rages.”
But Kyra stood there, determined, until finally they realized she would not back down. They exchanged an unsure look, then each reached out and slowly pulled back the thick door.
The moment they did, a freezing gale of wind howled and struck her in the face, the wind carrying whipping snow. She pulled her furs tighter as she looked down and saw snow up to her shins.
Kyra stepped out into the snow, knowing it was unsafe out here at night, the woods filled with creatures, seasoned criminals, and sometimes trolls. Especially on this night of all nights, the Winter Moon, the one night of the year one was supposed to stay indoors, to bar the gates, the night when the dead crossed worlds and anything could happen. Kyra looked up and saw the huge, blood-red moon hanging on the horizon, as if tempting her.
Kyra breathed deep, took the first step and did not turn back, ready to face whatever the night had in store.