by Morgan Rice
“Who am I, then?” she asked. “You know. Tell me.”
He looked at her for a long time, expressionless.
“You are more than a mere girl, Kyra,” he finally replied. “Which is why you—and you alone—must answer that question.”
*
Kyra hiked deeper and deeper into the forest, as she had been for hours, utterly alone, having left Leo and Andor behind, needing time to be with herself. Still reeling from her encounter with Alva, still trying to understand everything he’d said, she hiked deeper and deeper into the mysterious forest of Ur, past glowing, light green trees, swaying in the wind, their long leaves rustling, their shapes constantly changing. She replayed her encounter with Alva in her head, again and again. How had he beaten her so soundly? How could she have been so ineffective? What had he meant when he’d said the answers lay within her? What was the veil of the universe?
The training had been much harder than she imagined, not only physically, but mentally and spiritually. It would have been easier if she had had traditional targets, weapons, opponents to fight against. But this training of the mind was stumping her, pushing her farther than she had imagined. She was afraid she could not achieve what her uncle wanted of her. Did that mean she was a failure?
She closed her eyes as she went, trying to summon that deeper part of herself, to turn on that energy she had once experienced.
But try as she did, nothing came. She was no one now. Nowhere.
So many people in her life had had faith in her. Had she not deserved it?
Alva had urged her, after their sparring, to seek out the Pool of No Reflection, deep in the forest of Ur, and had pointed the way. She was so lost in her thoughts that, as she looked up at the sound of a bird, she forgot why she had even come this way—when her eye was caught by a glistening red color. Kyra hurried toward it and found herself at the edge of a clearing. She stopped, amazed at the sight. There, hidden in the thick wood, was a small red pond, its waters shimmering. She sensed a strange power emanating off of it, even from here. It must be the pool Alva had spoken of.
Kyra stepped forward cautiously and knelt beside it. She looked down, searching for her reflection, hoping.
Yet she found none.
It was as Alva had said. This pool did not reflect the outside world; instead, it reflected only what lay inside, what one was unwilling to see within one’s self. Kyra hoped for the waters to show her something, to help point the way.
But she waited for a long time, staring down, and was disappointed to see nothing. All she heard was the rustling of the leaves, high overhead.
What was it the universe demanded of her? she wondered. Why couldn’t she be like everybody else?
There came a sudden snap behind her, and Kyra turned, on edge, reaching for her staff. A noise raced past her, like a weapon racing through the air, and she looked over and was astonished to see a silver spear flying in her direction.
It whizzed by her, and Kyra realized it wasn’t meant for her. She turned and was shocked to see the spear puncture the breast of a Pandesian soldier—standing but a few feet away from her, sword raised high. He grunted and fell, and as his sword fell to the ground, she realized he had been about to stab her in the back. That spear had spared her from death. How stupid she had been to let down her guard.
Kyra wheeled, peering into the wood, wondering who had thrown the spear, who had saved her, and why.
Another snap followed, and she turned in the other direction and her heart caught in her throat. There, but a few feet away, was the most striking boy she had ever seen. He stood tall and proud, looking about her age, with broad shoulders, a smooth face, a chiseled jaw, and fine, golden hair longer than any man she knew, down to his waist. He stared back with flashing steel gray eyes, and as he did, she felt her breath leave her. She couldn’t look away if she tried. For the first time in her life, she was mesmerized.
The boy looked away. He stepped forward, extracted his silver spear, and rolled over the Pandesian soldier with his foot.
“They are everywhere,” he said, his voice as hypnotic as his face. “Searching for you. This one was a scout. That means an army follows on his heels.”
She could barely process his words, her mind reeling.
“You saved my life,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He looked away, combing the woods, and it pained her that his eyes would not meet hers.
“I mustn’t stay here,” he said, examining the treeline. “You must not, either.”
She stared at him, unable to look away.
“Who are you?” she asked. “Why did you save me?”
He looked down.
“I have been waiting for you,” he said, his voice so soft she barely heard it. Then he looked up and met her eyes. “For my entire life. For you and for no one else. For now and forever. And it is you, most of all, who I am forbidden to see.”
He looked up at her, his eyes watery, sparkling gray, and she knew, at that moment, two things: He was not human. And she was in love.
“I saved you because I love you,” he continued. “I always have, and I always will. And I saved you because I can never again see you after this day.”
He slowly reached out and touched her cheek, and his touch electrified her.
Then suddenly, just as quickly, he withdrew his hand and bolted off, disappearing into the wood.
Kyra stood there, left all alone, and looked out in wonder. Had she imagined it all?
She knew, from the way her heart was beating, from the feel of his skin still on her cheek, that she had not. She felt different from having met him. For the first time in her life, she didn’t think of battle, or training. For the first time, all her worries left her.
She thought only of the boy. The magical, mystical boy who had appeared like a lightning storm and disappeared just as quickly. She knew, as certain as she knew herself, that seeing him again would mean the ruin of them both.
And that, no matter what, was exactly what she had to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Duncan marched quickly through Fort Andros beneath the moonlight. He walked across ancient stone floors, past endless marble walls, his armor rattling, joined by several of his men, and he tried to shake from his mind his troubling thoughts. He walked past a series of arches and columns that looked out over the inner courtyard of the capital building, and his heart lifted with pride to see his hundreds of soldiers milling about, Kavos’s and Seavig’s men with them, Bramthos and Arthfael beside them, all preparing, waiting for the dawn. In but a few hours, they would march from this place, attack what remained of the Pandesian garrisons, and battle would come for them all.
Duncan turned down another corridor and saw a row of torches lighting the night, dozens more of his men lined up along the walls. Duncan had ordered the extra guard, and he was glad he had: that feast had turned into a fiasco. The alliance of Escalon splintered, his men nearly coming to blows with Bant. Duncan felt he was holding all his men together by a thread, and that he could trust no one.
Duncan was deep in thought as he marched, his mind teeming with a million anxieties, unable to sleep even if he had wanted to. With Baris leaving the alliance, Duncan had not only lost half his manpower, he knew, but had also made a great enemy in him. The men of Baris were vindictive and sneaky, and now not only would he have to defeat Pandesia, but he would also have to watch his back from within his own land—all thanks to his hot-headed sons. Bant, though, would likely slink back into his canyon, take no sides, and if Pandesia won, bank on their neutrality to spare them. Neutrality would spare no one in this war, though. Duncan knew that.
Duncan shook these worries from his mind; he had bigger ones to focus on. At daybreak he would lead half his men to ride south, for the Southern Gate, to relieve Anvin and hold back the Pandesian invasion. Along the way he would liberate and clear the southern cities, and secure the south. The other half of his army, led by Kavos and Bramthos, would be dispa
tched north and west, to secure Ur, its ports, and the north and west of Escalon. Without Bant, though, his men would be stretched thin; he would have to rely on whatever men he picked up along the way, on the people of Escalon aiding him in spontaneous revolt. If he could just seal the Southern Gate in time, and the ports of Ur in time, then, Duncan knew, Escalon could hold.
Duncan turned down corridors, marching and marching, until he reached a narrow stone staircase. He descended, deeper and deeper, impatient, as the staircase twisted and led him to the lower levels of the capital building. Walking these halls brought back memories.
As he reached the lower level, Duncan felt a knot in his stomach as he remembered where he was going: to visit Tarnis, locked up below. Duncan had received a scroll urging a word with him. He had been skeptical, wondering Tarnis could want from him now that he was imprisoned. A part of him wanted to ignore him, yet he knew Tarnis still wielded power and influence with his many connections in the capital, and he thought it wise to at least hear him out. He also still held, he had to admit, some warmth for him for old times’ sake, and his nostalgia tugged at his strings of compassion.
“You are wasting your time,” came a hurried voice beside him.
Duncan turned to see Kavos marching beside him, his face hard and lined, unsmiling. He did not look happy.
“Nothing Tarnis can say will make any difference,” he continued. “Words from a prisoner are meaningless, and he is but a weak old man trying to worm his way back into power.”
Duncan considered that as he walked.
“Perhaps,” he replied. “Yet still, I must hear him out. There comes no harm in listening, and a ruler who does not listen is a foolish ruler indeed.”
They reached a massive stone arch, secured by iron bars and guarded by Duncan’s men, and as Duncan paused before it, Kavos reached out and grabbed his arm, giving him a meaningful look.
“Do not trust him,” he urged. “We cannot trust any of them. You did him a great service by not beheading him. Remember: loyalty is not an entitlement. And loyalty misplaced is the most dangerous thing of all.”
Duncan pondered his words.
“It is just a conversation,” he replied. “I shall make no rash decisions. Regardless of what this old man has to say, we ride, all of us, at dawn, and I am as anxious for battle as you.”
Kavos didn’t seem convinced.
“We are men of war,” he continued. “Not men of talk. Don’t forget that. We are not like Tarnis. We are not like any of the others here. You will be unlike any King Escalon has ever had. Finally, one of us will be on the throne. You will be King second—and warrior first. But don’t assume, even for a second, that the others are like you.”
With that, Kavos turned and marched away.
Duncan turned and nodded to his guards, who bowed their heads in respect and opened the iron gates.
Duncan entered the small stone courtyard, open-aired, the moonlight shining down, and in the far corner spotted Tarnis sitting against a wall, hands on his knees, looking dejected, but a fraction of the man that Duncan once knew. Several of Duncan’s guard stood along the walls, torches burning high above them.
As Duncan entered, Tarnis looked up, and his eyes lit at the sight of him. He jumped to his feet and hurried toward him.
“I knew you’d come,” he said, smiling. “You were always the only warlord I could trust.”
Tarnis reached out to embrace him with a warm smile—but Duncan stood there coldly, not allowing his embrace.
“I am no warlord anymore,” Duncan replied, cold and hard. “I am your King.”
Tarnis stood there, and his face fell in disappointment as his arms slowly fell. He appeared humbled. It felt funny for Duncan, after serving so many years on the King’s council, to be on the other side of it—but he had to make sure Tarnis understood the new power structure and was not under any illusions.
“Forgive me, my King,” Tarnis replied, his voice broken. “I meant no offense. It takes time to get used a new title. After all, it was not so long ago when you called me King.”
Duncan gritted his teeth, thinking of the battle awaiting him at dawn and having little patience for this man.
“Why have you summoned me?” Duncan demanded, short.
Tarnis sighed.
“What I have to say is for your ears only,” Tarnis said, and glanced at Duncan’s guards, lining the wall.
Duncan stared back at his friend, his impatience growing but sensing an important message, and he reluctantly turned and nodded to his soldiers.
They immediately turned and filtered out, leaving the two of them alone in the courtyard, closing the iron gate behind them with a bang.
“Quickly,” Duncan said. “My time is short.”
“Walk with me,” Tarnis said, placing a hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “Grant me at least this much.”
They turned and walked, Duncan indulging him. It was a warm night here in this southern climate, the breezes temperate, the moon lighting their way as they passed beneath torches in the courtyard. Duncan recalled what a slow talker his old King could be, partly because he was a slow thinker, never quick to rush to judgment, and partly for effect.
“For many years you served at my council table,” Tarnis finally said, nostalgic. “I made a lot of good decisions, decisions that benefited Escalon. I made some bad ones, too, I will be the first to admit. You are King now, and you must know what it means, what it really means, to be King. It means you will encounter the bad along with the good.”
Tarnis took a deep breath as they walked.
“Surrendering Escalon,” Tarnis continued, “was a bad decision. I know this now. And I am truly and deeply sorry for it. But I did what I thought, at the time, was best for us all.”
They continued on in silence, Duncan wondering what this was all leading to. He could not help but wonder, too, if he would feel the same way when he was King.
“You will come to learn that when you are King,” Tarnis continued, “you will make many good decisions, and many bad ones, too. You can only hope that the good outweigh the bad. In my case, I was not so lucky. So many excellent decisions, all forgotten, all wiped away by that one bad one.”
They walked in silence, Duncan pondering his words.
“There is no shame in making bad decisions,” Duncan finally replied. “All decisions are forgivable, as long as they come from a place of honor. Your decision to surrender our country held no honor. That was your mistake. That was a bad decision, but more importantly, it revealed a character flaw. Moments of danger, of crisis, reveal character. I have seen it many times on the battlefield. And at the end of the day, we can only be judged by our character.”
Duncan expected Tarnis to argue, but to his surprise he nodded back in agreement.
“I cannot disagree,” he replied. “And you shall be a wise king—wiser than I clearly thought. I displayed a flaw in my character, true. Yet I also displayed many virtues in that same bad decision. Compassion. Humility. There is honor in these, too.”
Tarnis sighed as they continued on, Duncan feeling impatient, wondering what this was all leading to.
“Make no mistake,” Tarnis continued, “you, too, will encounter moments of flawed character as King. Yes, even you, with all your chivalry and honor. What you don’t yet understand is that to be King means nothing more than embracing compromise. Your job is to hold together the loose alliance we call Escalon. Yet we are not truly one land—we never have been. We are a series of competing strongholds. And oftentimes, too often, as King, you must bend to keep them all together. Unity.” Tarnis shook his head. “As if it were some great goal. What is so great about unity? Why is it so important that we all be one land, one name, one banner? Why not just be competing strongholds, each ruled by its own warlord?”
Duncan contemplated his words as they walked.
“Then we could not fend off an invasion,” Duncan replied.
“I was a master politician,” Tarnis continued.
“As was my father, and his father before him. I was good at what I did, just as you are good at what you do. I could not wield a sword, as do you—and yet, you could not stomach all the lies and machinations as I had to suffer in that council of nobles. We each have our talents, our strengths and weaknesses. It doesn’t make either one of us better than the other.”
They stopped, and Tarnis turned and looked at him, eyes filled with compassion.
“I elevated you above all my warlords,” Tarnis said. “I made you my most important warrior. And you, in turn, kept me alive when you had no reason to—a far greater gift, to be sure. Now I wish to return the favor.”
Duncan stared at him, wondering.
“How?” he asked.
“By saving your life in return,” Tarnis replied.
Duncan frowned.
“My life needs no saving.”
Tarnis smiled and shook his head.
“If only that were true,” Tarnis replied. “At dawn, you will recklessly wage war on all of Pandesia. You know as well as I do that you cannot win. Even if you cleared our land, secured the Southern Gate, they will send the hordes of the world against us and will not stop until all we know is dead and gone.”
Duncan gritted his teeth, unmoved.
“That is the difference between you and I,” Duncan replied coldly. “You wage wars only when you can win. I wage wars when honor and duty compel them.”
“What if I brought you victory another way?” Tarnis asked. “With honor, and without losing a life?”
Duncan stared back, suspicious.
“And how can you do that?” he asked.
Tarnis smiled.
“I have built much good faith with Pandesia,” he replied. “I did not resist their invasion, I complied with their demands, and as a result, they hold me in high esteem. They listen when I speak to them. I have got a message to them—and they have responded. I have negotiated a truce for you.”
Duncan raised his eyebrows, shocked.
“A truce?” he asked, indignant. “And who are you to negotiate a truce for a land you no longer rule?”