Limestone pillars rose in palisades, supporting a vaulted ceiling. Dust, grooves, and holes covered the tiled floor and brick walls. Two lines of braziers crackled, forming a corridor of light. At the end of this corridor, a man sat in a chair, his head lowered and his face shadowed. A sword lay upon his lap; the man stared at it, not looking up.
A silent, dark majesty filled the hall, Rune thought. The kings of Osanna had once ruled from this place, presiding over courts of light and life. This man ahead, Rune thought, seemed a different sort of king—a king of death and darkness. He had no golden throne, only an old wooden chair. He wore no armor, only the garb of a forester. And yet Rune thought: He exudes his own regality, as strong as those true kings who had once sat here.
Rune looked at Kaelyn. She stood at his side, still and silent, but a light seemed to fill her eyes—a light of comfort and hope, hearth light shining at the windows for a weary traveler returning home.
She looked at Rune and a smile touched her lips. She held his hand and guided him forward. They walked across the hall, moving down the palisade of braziers and columns, and approached the shadowy man.
“Valien,” Kaelyn said softly. “I’ve returned.”
The man did not look up. He was polishing his sword, Rune saw, moving an oiled rag back and forth along the blade. Rune had a feeling that blade had been polished to perfection hours ago. His own father, when troubled, would polish the Old Wheel’s bar over and over for hours, lost in thought. This man was polishing his blade with the same weariness.
Rune could still not see Valien’s face, but what he saw of the man spoke of haunting memory, of pain, of a weight too great to bear. Valien’s hair was long and untamed, hanging loose about his face; it must have once been a great black mane, but now white streaked it. The man’s shoulders, though wide and strong, slumped as if bearing an invisible yoke. Valien’s clothes had once been fine, Rune thought; they were made of thick wool and tanned leather. Yet years of age had worn them; the fabrics were now faded into mere memories of lost glory.
Seeing this man, Rune did not know how to feel. Many in Cadport, including his father, would whisper that Valien was a hero, the only man brave enough to stand up to the Cadigus family. Others said that Valien was a ruthless killer, that he had slain many soldiers from Cadport, including Tilla’s brother. Standing here today, Rune did not know whether to feel awe, hatred, or fear.
“Lord Valien Eleison,” he said softly. “The lost knight of Requiem.”
Valien’s hands stilled upon the blade. His body tensed. He still did not look up. After what seemed an eternity of silence, Valien snorted.
“Lord Valien Eleison?” he spoke in shadow, and Rune started, for that voice was rough and worn like beaten leather. “I haven’t been a lord in many years, boy. And the House Eleison has fallen; I am its last survivor. You may call me Valien now; titles are nothing but a memory of light in darkness.”
Rune wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The Regime called this man a demon; others call him a hero. Standing here, Rune saw neither. He saw only a tired, broken man, the ghost of somebody who might once have been great.
“Valien,” he said. “Just Valien then. And I’m just Rune.”
For the first time, Valien looked up… and Rune nearly lost his breath.
He had seen hard faces before. Frey Cadigus, in paintings and statues, bore a face that Rune thought could wilt flowers. Tilla’s face, when she was angry, was hard as granite. But this man…
Valien’s face seemed carved of beaten leather stretched over iron. Grizzled stubble covered his cheeks. Grooves framed his mouth. But worst of all were his eyes. Those eyes were dark, deep, and haunted as windows in temples of ghosts. They sang of old pain and battles as clearly as tales in books or poems. He couldn’t have been much older than forty, Rune thought, but his eyes seemed more ancient than those of old men.
“Just Rune,” Valien rasped. “Is that so? Do you think you were brought before me because you are just Rune?”
Again, Rune was struck by that gruff voice. Valien spoke like a man being strangled. His voice was but a hiss, a scratch, a deathly gasp.
“Some might think me more than that,” Rune said. “I’ve heard what Kaelyn believes. I come here to tell you: She is wrong.” He shook his head. “I’m not the one you seek.”
Valien snorted again. “Aren’t you now?” He coughed and hissed like a man hanging from a noose. “I smuggled Relesar Aeternum out of the burning palace of his father, slaying Cadigus men as I held the babe. I brought the child, last heir of the dynasty, to an old tavern in an older port. I gave him a new name. I know you better than you know yourself, Rune Brewer. I’ve known you all your life, and so has Kaelyn.”
The young woman, hearing her name, walked over to Valien and placed a hand on his shoulder. She leaned down, kissed his cheek, and whispered soft blessings.
When she straightened, she said, “Valien, I barely saved the boy in time. Shari arrived in Lynport the same day. I fought her. I wounded her. I smuggled Rune out moments before her men stormed the tavern.” Kaelyn lowered her head. “She burned that tavern down, and she killed its keeper. I’m sorry, Valien; I did not mean for any blood to spill. I flew too slowly.” She raised her head again, and her eyes shone with tears. “But he is here now. The heir to the throne. He will rally the people against Cadigus; he will bring us hope.”
A lump filled Rune’s throat. His eyes burned. Thinking about the Old Wheel still pained him so much he could barely breathe.
“Wait a moment!” he said, his voice too loud; it echoed in the chamber. “I will not be some figurehead for your Resistance. I hate Frey Cadigus too, but… I’m only a brewer. I’m not who you think I am. I—”
“You,” Valien said, “were kept safe. We made damn sure of that. I’ve been protecting you all your life, Relesar, though you never knew it. I was in the Old Wheel many times, in shadow, watching you grow from a babe, to a boy, to a man. I made sure you never knew your true parentage; not until you were old enough. You were safe in the Old Wheel.” He sighed. “At least, safe until you went ahead and started looking like your father.”
“Wil Brewer is my father—” Rune began.
“Your father was the last King Aeternum,” Valien said. “I should know; I fought for him. And you, Rune, look exactly like him, damn you. The Regime noticed. And so… now you are here. You can no longer hide. The time has come, Rune, for you to accept your true heritage… and to take arms against the man who slew your family.” Valien reached out and clutched Rune’s arm, digging his fingers like an iron vise. “The throne of Requiem is yours. With your help, we will slay the tyrant and place you upon that throne.”
Rune laughed.
He turned away.
He could not stop laughing. His laughter echoed through the hall, and tears stung his eyes, and he clutched his belly but could not stop. Valien and Kaelyn were looking at each other grimly, but that only made Rune laugh harder.
Tilla, his best friend, the woman who had kissed him—gone into the Legions. His father—dead. His tavern—burned. His life—torn apart. And now this! Now this ragged shell of man who ruled over ruins and bones—this disgraced knight—called him the heir of Aeternum. Rune paced the hall, tears streaming down his face as he laughed. As his world burned, as all hope for life faded, as everything he’d ever known crumbled around him, what else could he do but laugh?
“Rune,” Kaelyn said slowly. “Rune, I know this is a lot to take in.”
He tossed back his head, only laughing harder.
“Do you think so, Kaelyn?” he said. “I only just waded through skeletons to meet your grizzled old friend here—who looks barely better—and was told you want me to dethrone Frey Cadigus. Did I miss anything?”
Kaelyn stepped toward him and took his hands. “You don’t have to dethrone him yourself, Rune. It needn’t be your hand that slays him. But yes, you will sit upon his throne once we kill him.”
He wiped tears from his ey
es, chest still shaking with laughter. “Well, there’s a relief. And tell me, even if I am this… heir of Aeternum… even if my true father was the king… who cares? Kaelyn, you’re Frey’s daughter. Kill the bastard and you take the throne.” He pointed a shaky finger at Valien. “Or you, old knight. You’re supposedly a great warrior. If one soldier could start a new dynasty, why not another? Why not you—”
Valien rose to his feet and roared.
Rune’s laughter and voice died.
He had not imagined this weathered man, a wreck who coughed and talked in a wheeze, could roar. And yet Valien now howled, and the cry—the cry of an enraged beast—filled the hall, echoed, and pounded in Rune’s ears.
“Silence!”
Valien stomped forward so violently that Rune stepped back, but the man reached him and grabbed his collar. The fallen knight thrust his face close and snarled.
“I’ve not carried you through fire and blood to hear you mock me,” Valien said, voice gruff as old leather cracking under stones. “You know so little. All your life has been sheltered. I made sure of that. You speak of things you do not understand.”
Rune’s laughter was gone now. Instead he found rage pounding through him, an inferno rising from his belly to sting his throat and eyes. He raged for Tilla leaving, for his father dying, for being taken to this place. He glared back at Valien with burning eyes.
“Is that my fault? You claim to have been watching me all my life. You kept me in the dark! And now you want to use me in your war as some… some figurehead? Look around you, Valien!” He swept his hands around the hall. “Look at this place. A shattered hall. Look at the city you dwell in! A ruin of skeletons. Look at your men! A few hungry souls with chipped swords and no armor. You speak of killing Frey Cadigus? Your war is hopeless.”
“Then it is hopeless!” Valien howled. He shoved Rune back, and his eyes burned. “Then we will die! Then we will die like the rest of them—like your parents, like your siblings, like the knights of my order, like my—”
Valien froze.
His face paled.
His lip trembled.
The gruff man stepped back, whispering and staring at Rune.
Then, with a hiss, he spun around and marched into the shadows. He disappeared into the back of the hall, a door slammed shut, and Valien was gone.
Rune’s heart pounded, his fingers shook, and his breath rattled his ribs. He turned toward Kaelyn. She stood by the empty chair, eyes sad like birds left to die in an abandoned cage.
“What was that all about?” Rune demanded. “Why did he just… leave like he saw a ghost?”
Kaelyn heaved a sigh. She looked over to the shadows where Valien had vanished.
“Because he did see a ghost,” she whispered. “He saw her again.”
Rune too looked toward those shadows, but Valien was gone and did not return. The room seemed to grow colder, and Rune hugged himself. He had just met the leader of the Resistance, the supposed hope of Requiem, the only man who had ever stood up to Frey Cadigus, raised his head, and said to him: This land is not yours.
And I saw only a broken, haunted wreck, Rune thought.
“Who was she?” he asked. “The woman he lost.”
Kaelyn placed a hand on his shoulder. “Come, Rune. Evening falls. Let’s go find a meal and a place to sleep. Valien needs to be alone this night.”
She took Rune through a doorway, down a flight of stairs, and into a cellar filled with bookshelves, jugs of wine, and a bed. Several candles stood on a table, and Kaelyn lit them with her tinderbox. A painting hung on one wall, showing a woman with golden hair and sad eyes.
“Another gopher hole?” Rune asked.
Kaelyn smiled softly. “No. This one is a Kaelyn hole. My home—if any place can be called my home anymore. You can share it for now.” She glared at him and jabbed a finger against his chest. “At least until we figure out what to do with you.”
He frowned at the room and his stomach sank. “There’s only one bed.”
“Of course there’s only one bed!” She bristled. “We’re not running a tavern here, Rune Brewer. You will be quite comfortable sleeping on the floor. Well, I lied. You’ll be cold and stiff, but you’ll be alive, and that’s all I care about.”
With that, Kaelyn turned away. She hung her bow, quiver, and sword on pegs. When she doffed her cloak, remaining in only her leggings and tunic, Rune was struck by how fragile she looked. Armed and cloaked, Kaelyn had seemed a warrior. Now he saw only a slim girl, barely half his size. Her golden hair cascaded down her back, and her skin shone orange in the candlelight, and despite himself, and despite all this death and horror, Rune’s blood heated.
She’s beautiful, he thought. He found himself imagining what her body looked like under her clothes. With how snugly they fit, he didn’t have to imagine much. His mouth dried.
She looked over her shoulder and glared.
“What are you looking at?” she said. “Stop standing there like a useless lump and get some food.” She nodded at a shelf. “There, you’ll find some bread and cheese. Slice us a meal.”
Rune shook his head and blinked, banishing those warm, ticklish, disturbing thoughts. Kaelyn was a menace! She was bossy, she had dragged him from his home, and besides—he had Tilla. He had sworn to find her someday; he would stick to that vow.
They sat on her bed and ate a cold dinner. Rune wanted to demand more answers: about Valien, about this shattered palace, about what they planned next. But weariness tugged him so strongly he could barely chew his meal. When they were done eating, Kaelyn nudged him off the bed.
“Go on,” she said. “There’s a nice comfortable floor for you. I’m not sharing my bed with you yet.”
“Yet?” he asked.
She gave him another one of her famous glares. “Not ever, but I thought that, for tonight, I’d give you just a bit of hope to help you sleep.” A wan smile touched her lips, and she mussed his hair. “Get some sleep, Rune. Tomorrow we continue the fight.”
When he lay on the floor, wrapped in his cloak, he looked up to see Kaelyn lying in the bed. She pulled a blanket over her and wriggled. A moment later, she kicked her leggings and tunic outside the bed, letting them drop to the floor.
Rune swallowed.
She’s naked under that blanket, he thought, and again his blood began to boil. Stars, he could imagine her body there, warm and lithe and—
Stop it, he told himself. He turned away from the bed, so that he lay facing the wall. He closed his eyes and thought about Tilla instead. He remembered all those times they had walked along the beach, whispering or just walking silently. He remembered their kiss. He remembered her smooth, black hair that fell to her chin, and her dark eyes, and the rarity of her smile.
We will walk along that beach again, Tilla, he thought.
Sleep found him, and he dreamed of her at his side, sand under his feet, and waves under starlight.
15
TILLA
Tilla wasn’t sure how she ended up being the standard-bearer.
Arriving in Castra Luna that morning—stars, it seemed like ages ago!—she had wanted to keep a low profile. This was hard enough to do with her height; she towered above the other girls. Now, marching ahead of the Black Rose Phalanx, bearing its standard while shouting out time, she stuck out like, well… like a tall, awkward girl in ill-fitting leather, shouting while waving around a huge banner.
It was night, but even that didn’t help conceal her; braziers and torches crackled across the fortress grounds, their light falling upon her. Tilla sighed.
“Three, two, one!” she yelled, marching ahead of the other recruits. Their boots thudded behind hers in unison.
She hefted her standard; the damn thing was damn heavy. The pole rose ten feet tall. Upon its crest rose an iron rose inside a ring—sigil of the Black Rose Phalanx.
And of Nairi’s house, Tilla thought sourly as she called cadence. Tilla herself was a commoner, her surname merely her trade, and she had n
o fine sigil of her own. Yet Nairi Blackrose was the daughter of nobles, and she bore the dark rose upon her breastplate, her sword, and now upon her phalanx.
Tilla looked over at Nairi. The young lanse alternated between marching ahead of the phalanx, leading its way around the fort, and falling back to inspect the marching troops. Her narrowed eyes stared at every thudding boot. Whenever a single soldier stepped out of time, Nairi swooped in, lashed her punisher, and a scream rose.
“You will learn to march as one!” Nairi shouted. “Or I will burn it into you.”
Tilla kept calling time and marching. The standard was so heavy her arms ached, but she dared not lower it; the one time she had let it dip, Nairi’s punisher had driven into her ribs.
I’m nothing but a tool to serve her, Tilla thought, watching the young noblewoman.
She wondered if commoners could ever rise in the Legions’ ranks. Upon her shoulders, Nairi wore the red spirals of an officer, but she was nobleborn. Every lowborn soldier Tilla had known—back home and here in Castra Luna—only wore red stars on armbands; they fought and died, but did not command.
Could I become an officer too? Tilla wondered. Could lowborn wear red spirals, or does my common blood doom me to a life of obeying orders and suffering the burns of punishers?
She didn’t know. Yet as she kept shouting—”Three, two, one!”—Tilla vowed that if commoners could rise somehow, she would find the way.
I will not serve as Nairi’s standard-bearer forever.
As they marched, Tilla got to see more of Castra Luna. It was a sprawling complex, larger than she had first thought. They passed by the armory, a smithy where hammers rang, kitchens pumping smoke from a dozen chimneys, towering walls where dragons perched, and barracks of mossy bricks.
As they walked, Tilla wondered which building she would live in. They passed many structures, some squat and dank, others rising tall and topped with towers. Soldiers moved behind their windows. How many would share her room, and would her bed be clean, and would she have a little space to herself? Like it or not, this would be her home for several moons of training. Every building they passed, Tilla looked up nervously and wondered: Will I be living in this one?
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