by John Marco
Home had a distinctive, frightening smell. Jazana Carr could sense it tickling her nostrils. Even through the pungency of the Alden forest she could sense the nothing-ness of the Bleak Territories, waiting not far beyond the trees, a vast graveyard of depleted diamond mines and decrepit villages.
“Haverthorn.”
Jazana Carr whispered the name, careful so that no one heard her. She had not spoken the word to herself in years. The name Haverthorn had become a curse to her. It was a sealed iron box, waiting to be opened at just the right time, a time of Jazana Carr’s choosing. When she had taken Carlion, that time had come. Since then, she had not been able to shake Haverthorn from her thoughts. Nor had she tried. Being so close to it made her shiver. She drew her cape about her shoulders, then blew into her wolf-fur gloves. Her eyes darted through the trees, staring northward through their ranks, scanning the gaps in them for any hint of home. How many times had she come to this forest? So often she couldn’t count. She had fled here, wept here, and vowed revenge here, only to return each time to her father’s hovel and his wretched bed. With nowhere to turn, the child she had been always crawled back.
But I am not a child any longer, thought Jazana Carr. She bit her lip thoughtfully, reminding herself that she was queen. I am a woman. I am no man’s slave.
The revelation overwhelmed her with memories. She closed her eyes to calm her galloping heartbeat. Like a little girl, her stomach fluttered with butterflies. She grasped the reins of her horse tightly, swaying in the saddle and fearing she might fall. Habran, her Ganjeese body-servant, saw her distress and rode to her. Habran and Faruna and all her other servants had made the journey home with her, always offering comfort at the end of the day. Habran himself wasn’t much of a rider, though he shunned the carriages the women rode in, proving himself to be at least half the man his mistress was.
“My lady?” he asked as he sidled alongside her. “How are you? You look unwell.”
Jazana smiled to cover up her misery. “Tired, Habran, just tired.”
“We should stop, then,” said the servant. His voice held a distinct lilt, always rising when perturbed. “We can take a rest and I can massage you.”
“No,” replied Jazana, shaking her head. “I don’t want to stop. Not yet.”
Habran’s nose wrinkled sourly. Constant ribbing from the soldiers had pushed Habran into saddling up a horse of his own, and he clearly regretted the decision. But he had continued, and for that Jazana Carr respected him. In his silk shirt and lavender cape he looked to be travelling to a harem, not a fortress, yet he did not let the other men see his discomfort. He simply smiled when they looked his way to sneer, forgetting his saddle sores.
“I’m looking forward to going home,” he said cheerfully. “We’re very near now. I heard Rodrik Varl say we’ll be there by afternoon tomorrow.”
“Yes, we’re very close,” said Jazana. Her mind was elsewhere though, and because she didn’t want to talk she made no eye contact with her servant. The dark-skinned man picked up on her reticence at once. Without a word he let his horse fall back a pace. But Rodrik Varl had heard their conversation and so had fallen back himself, dropping out of point and pausing for his mistress to catch up. When she did he trotted his white gelding alongside her. His smile was scimitar-sharp.
“Habran has his eye on you, eh?” he asked in his rolling brogue. “Should I be worried?”
His wit warmed Jazana. She replied, “He speaks to me only to make you jealous, dear.”
“Ah, now I am worried!” Rodrik Varl laughed and pulled at his scarlet beard. “Perhaps I should shave when we get home. Then I will look more like a man-girl, like him.”
“No, one is enough, thank you,” said Jazana. She welcomed Rodrik’s distraction and decided to ask about their progress. “Another day, do you think?”
“A day or less. We’re almost out of the forest.”
“Yes,” said Jazana. Very soon they would find the road to Haverthorn. Her riding slowed almost imperceptibly. Rodrik Varl noticed the slackness of her smile.
“My lady is troubled,” he said. “Why?”
“We’re going home,” said Jazana. “It makes me pensive.”
“It shouldn’t. For the first time you’re returning home as queen.”
Jazana nodded. “But there’s much yet to do.”
“Aye, there is that,” agreed Rodrik. From the moment she’d ascended Norvor’s battered throne he’d reminded her of her myriad problems. “But you’ve done well so far, my lady. I’ve been watching you. You have grown quickly into your queenship. The people love you.”
“Not all the people,” said Jazana sourly. Though the women of Carlion had been quick to accept her, many men still did not.
“That will change. Once they all know that you can feed them, keep them safe, they will see the truth of you.”
“The truth of me?” The Diamond Queen laughed. “What is that, I wonder? The people will love me if I bribe them—is that all I am to be?”
“It is what the country needs now, my lady. When people starve they need bread. Give them bread and they will listen to anything you have to say. That’s how you will change things, my lady. First, feed their stomachs. Then feed their minds.”
Jazana considered the advice. In the weeks since winning Norvor, her bodyguard had become a surprisingly wise advisor. That he cautioned slowness bothered her, though, and she knew he suspected the reason for their return to Hanging Man.
“I do not have time for them to love me, Rodrik,” she reminded him. She glanced at him, and when he did not reply she pressed him. “You see that, don’t you? We must move on Liiria while we have the momentum.”
“Liiria will wait, Jazana. Norvor needs you first.”
“I have the means to control both.”
“I’m not talking about money,” said Varl sharply. “Norvor needs your attention, not just your diamonds.” He shook his head, trying with difficulty to mask his displeasure. “All these years it took you to win Norvor. Now you have it and you’re not satisfied. And the worst of it is you do this thing as a vendetta.”
“I do not,” said Jazana icily.
“You promised Thorin you’d conquer Liiria, so now just to spite him you’ll risk Norvor.”
“Rodrik, your jealousy is showing.”
Her bodyguard looked at her with pity. “My lady, be I jealous of Thorin or not matters little. His leaving hurt you deeply, that I know. But if you think conquering Liiria will salve your broken heart, you are wrong.”
His perception was like a rapier to Jazana Carr, who winced at the accusation. “You don’t understand, Rodrik, and you never have. This isn’t just about Thorin. It’s about me.”
“Aye, it’s about proving yourself to the whole world. I know you better than you think, my lady.”
Perhaps he did, thought Jazana. Not liking the conversation, she ended it. “We’ll stop here,” she said. “We’ll rest and set out again in the morning.”
Rodrik looked at her, confused. “Here? Why?”
“Because I said so and because I’m tired.”
“But there’s hours of sunlight left, my lady. We can cover miles more before night falls.”
“No. I want to stop here. Call your men to halt.”
“Jazana, we have time to rest and to continue,” said Rodrik. “If you’re tired—”
“Yes, I’m tired of you questioning me! Now call a halt, damn you!”
To make her point Jazana reined her horse to a sudden stop, then stared at Rodrik. Instantly those who had seen their queen halt did the same. Rodrik muttered an obscenity before complying, then told his lieutenants they would be camping here for the night. His men shared his surprise but did not complain. As they dismounted Rodrik could barely bring himself to look at his queen.
“You get more difficult every day, Jazana,” he said. “I ask myself why I stay with you.”
“Because you love me, you fool,” chirped Jazana, happy to have gotten her way.
“Now listen—I want you to be ready at dawn. You and I have somewhere to go.”
Her bodyguard snorted. “Yes, to Hanging Man!”
“No, somewhere else,” said Jazana. She got down from her horse and rolled her head on her shoulders to stretch. “Just you and I, Rodrik.”
“Just us?” asked Rodrik with annoyance. “Where are we going?”
Jazana Carr no longer wished to talk. She turned and went toward Habran, eager for a massage while her other servants erected her pavilion.
That night, Jazana Carr slept in her pavilion of silk pillows, dreaming of Haverthorn and her long-dead father. Then, before the sun rose, she awoke and purposefully tore the sheets off her body, calling for her servant Faruna to attend her and help her dress. She sent word to Rodrik Varl to ready their horses, attired herself in rugged riding gear with tall boots and black leather gloves that climbed to her elbows, then pulled open the flaps of her pavilion to greet the new morning. As expected, she found most of her men still asleep. Even the pack animals barely stirred. Around the wagons and carts, little campfires smoldered from the night before. A handful of mercenaries milled about the encampment, lazily guarding their queen and cargo. Jazana Carr ignored them as they snapped to attention, startled by her presence. In the distance she saw Rodrik Varl waiting for her atop his horse. Her own mount stood next to him, saddled and ready, as did two more of Rodrik’s many mercenaries. Obviously only recently roused from sleep, the two men struggled to sit up as their queen approached. Rodrik’s beard parted with a yawn. She frowned at him, slightly annoyed.
“I told you,” she called across the camp, “it’s just to be the two of us.”
The ruddy soldier shook his head. “No, my lady, you know I can’t allow that. We’ll need protection, wherever you have us going. Where is that, by the way?”
“I have you to protect me, Rodrik,” Jazana shot back. “That’s what I pay you for, is it not?”
“My lady flatters me, but even I’m not enough to protect your person in these parts. So? Is our destination to be a surprise?”
“Yes,” said Jazana. Before mounting her horse she considered the two guards. Their names were Den and Gace, a pair of brothers from Rolga who had joined Jazana’s army long before their city fell. She knew they were trustworthy and good fighters, but she had hoped to be alone for what she had planned.
“I don’t like surprises,” said Rodrik Varl. “Especially so early in the morning.”
Jazana Carr mounted her horse. “We’ll be gone most of the day,” she said.
Rodrik nodded. “I packed provisions.”
Jazana suddenly suspected Rodrik had guessed at their destination. But she said nothing, and did not question him further or protest the uninvited mercenaries. She simply squeezed her legs together and rode off down the narrow forest path, letting Rodrik and the Rolgan brothers follow. Soon they had left their sleepy camp behind, heading north into the quiet woods while the first rays of sunlight dappled the mossy earth. It was a fine day for travelling, Jazana decided, with an almost breezeless chill and a sky blue with calm. The sunlight felt good on her face. Jazana turned her eyes skyward, glad to be away from her pavilion and her dream-plagued night. Behind her, Rodrik and the others had fallen into an easy banter, telling bawdy jokes. Suddenly, Jazana was glad to have the men with her, especially Rodrik. He was deeply devoted, for a man, and she leaned on him often. Today, she knew she would need his rock-steady presence.
For more than an hour they rode north, never coming against another traveler or any fork in the road. The woods had thinned considerably by this time, and Jazana knew she was close to Haverthorn. A shiver rippled across her skin when she saw the road veer east. Slowly she reined her horse back, pointing at the bend in the road with her chin.
“That way,” she said. She glanced at Rodrik Varl for his reaction, but he merely nodded.
“To Haverthorn.”
Den and Gace seemed to have no recollection of the name.
“Haverthorn? What’s that?” asked Gace.
“You’ll see,” said Rodrik, then steered his horse alongside Jazana’s as they made their way along the new, gravel-laden road. Gace and his brother followed without hesitation, and as they left behind the forest the land immediately flattened into an ugly plateau studded with rocks and shadowed by distant hills. Here were the Bleak Territories in truth. And here was Haverthorn, burnt-out husk of a village, standing like a withered crone against the hills, its skeleton standing stark against the brown earth. The chirping wildlife of the forest disappeared behind them, swallowed by the dust sweeping across the plain. The sight of Haverthorn chilled Jazana Carr, forcing her to adjust her cape. She heard Den mutter behind her, commenting on the place’s ugliness. Rodrik Varl silenced him with a sneer. The red-haired soldier trotted up to ride close beside his mistress, giving her a worried glance. Jazana could not bring herself to meet his gaze.
“Tell them to keep back,” she told Rodrik softly.
Her bodyguard obeyed, and Den and Gace retreated several paces, letting their queen ride off ahead of them with Varl. Jazana kept her eyes on the dead town looming ahead of her. Once—a lifetime ago—it had been her home. Back then Haverthorn had been a booming mining town, a place for desperate farmers displaced by drought to come and attempt to feed their starving families. Gem barons and warlords feuded over the town’s productive mines, bleeding them dry over the years until at last nothing was left of Haverthorn or its people except the windblown remains of shanty shacks and rusted tools. As they neared the town, the homesteads dotting the roadside winked at them with broken windows, their dilapidated shudders and roof shingles flapping and waving in the breeze.
“Jazana,” said Rodrik gently, “there’s nothing here.”
He didn’t know why she had come, and up until now he hadn’t questioned her. Good Rodrik, so loyal, so true. So unlike her wretched father.
“I know,” she replied. “There’s something I need to do. Stay with me, Rodrik.”
Of course he would stay with her; he didn’t need to answer. As Den and Gace fell further behind, Rodrik rode slowly beside her as they skirted the town, avoiding its center and keeping to its outskirts. The broken homesteads gave way to the taller constructs of the gem barons’ homes and the merchant stores that had sprung up like weeds to service the populace. Jazana recognized the stone towers and taverns, all abandoned now. Like her father and later herself, the barons had drained Haverthorn of every drop of blood, hiring mercenaries to protect their mines and driving their workers mercilessly in the deep, claustrophobic diamond pits. This was where Jazana Carr—the real Jazana Carr—was truly born. Here she had learned the value of money—and the terrible hardship of being female. Both lessons had been taught to her by her father, Gorin Carr, a man she had shed no tears for when he died.
“Where are we going, Jazana?” Rodrik asked carefully.
A blot against the hills came into Jazana’s view.
“There,” she said after a moment.
In the shadow of the hillside rose a small stone castle, as bent and dilapidated as any of Haverthorn’s buildings. A single turret rose up from its stout foundation, shedding bricks and leaning awkwardly to one side. Around the castle stood a stone fence, mostly rubble now. Even from such a distance Jazana knew it plainly, using her memory to fill in the blanks. When she was a girl here, there was always moss burgeoning through the mortar, staining the ungainly edifice. The gaps in the fencing stood out to her like broken teeth. As she rode closer to the castle she did not spare a glance for Rodrik or the others. She was horribly enchanted by the place, succumbing to ancient memories that screamed suddenly to life. A knowing hush fell over her mercenaries. Rodrik Varl slowed his horse a little, letting his mistress take the lead.
“I was a girl here,” said Jazana Carr. Her mount bounced slowly beneath her as she rode, rocking her. “A long time ago.”
How long ago was it now? She counted up the years. She had been seventeen when her fathe
r had died, releasing her from that particular hell. And all the things she had done since had brought her to this place today, and even the glory of being queen withered in the shadow of this dark place. Once again Jazana Carr was a girl, running into the forest, running from her father and his vile bed. Like a wind the memories rushed at her, pulling her expression into a violated grimace. She felt his hands on her virgin body, stripping her, taking her maidenhood, taking her into his arms and his sheets, again and again, ignoring her cries, cursing her, beating her. Jazana Carr swallowed the bile welling up and thought for a moment that she couldn’t go on. Yet the place still beckoned her. It had called her out of Carlion and would not be sated, not until she faced it.
“Den and Gace, stay here, both of you,” she told the brother soldiers. “Rodrik . . .”
Like a loyal dog Rodrik Varl followed her to the castle. Having him so close gave her strength. She had never told him all that had gone on here. She wanted to tell him now, yet her voice had fled. And it seemed to Jazana that Rodrik somehow knew the sad tale anyhow. Suddenly, he was more than just a bodyguard or would-be lover—he was her only friend. The thought burrowed its way deep into Jazana’s mind. Here in this place she had had no friends. An only child with a dead mother. Servants who turned a blind eye to her misery. A father who knew no morality. These had been her teachers.
They came to the decimated fence. Jazana stopped her horse. The turret of the castle hovered over her. She got down slowly from her mount and briefly ran her hands over the smooth, moss-covered stones of the fence. Rodrik Varl dismounted and stood to her side, watching her. Jazana took a cautious step forward, entering the yard through a gap in the short wall. Rocks and weeds littered the grounds. Field mice scattered as she approached, the only inhabitants the desolate keep had seen in ages. A breeze from the hills pulled at Jazana’s cape, making the shutters of the old keep screech. Jazana spotted a window, its glass still intact. Though clouded with spiderwebs and filth, she could almost see through it into the dining room where she always took her meals and her father always leered at her with expectant eyes.