“You’ve earned it,” said Shona. “And if it was up to Josen, it would be as simple as that. But we still need to convince my people that this can work, and that means today’s ceremonies must go perfectly. I have some suggestions to that end.”
Zerill only nodded, and waited.
“I can’t tell you who should represent the Abandoned, but it would help to include Azra and Verik among them. They’ve been seen in the Plateaus before—familiarity is always comforting. And Verik saved lives when the Queensgate fell. That is a story I would like to see spread very quickly.”
“They will come if I ask.”
“What about me?” Eroh’s voice, and suddenly he was clutching Zerill’s hand; apparently his game had taken him near enough to overhear. “I want to stand with Zerill.”
“You’ll be on the dais with Josen,” Shona said gently, and hoped he would understand. The boy absolutely adored Zerill; he’d refused to stay behind at the Keep when he’d learned she would be in the Plateaus. “The people need to believe that he has been chosen by the last Windwalker. It will make it easier for them to accept the rest of the Abandoned if they see you standing beside the king.”
“Oh.” Eroh looked up at Zerill, clearly disappointed. “Will that help?”
“If Shona says so, I have to believe her,” said Zerill.
He nodded solemnly. “Then I’ll do it.”
Zerill smiled down at him. “Thank you, Eroh.” She ruffled his hair and showed him a quick hand-sign; he obediently hurried back to where Azra was waiting to resume their game. It’s a good thing she chose our side, Shona thought, watching him go, because if she told him to pick Castar, I think he would.
When Eroh was gone, Zerill looked to Shona once more. “What else?”
“This is more… delicate. When you stand before Josen, it would be good if you showed some sign of respect.”
Zerill frowned. “We will not kneel to a highlander, if that is what you mean.”
“It isn’t,” said Shona. “I would love it if you would, but I know you won’t. Do your people have some other gesture that might serve? One of your hand signs, maybe?”
For a moment, Zerill was silent, and then she extended her arm in front of her, fully straight, elbow locked. Her fist was closed, palm facing upward; she opened it so that her hand lay flat with fingers outstretched. “This means ‘speak’. We use it to acknowledge one another in Kinmeet. Your lord general told me that would be a greater honor than he deserved, once.”
“That will do.” It wasn’t the reverence Shona might have hoped for, but at least it looked somewhat respectful. “When you come to the Orator’s Rise, Josen will be standing on the speaker’s dais. Normally, the king would wait for you to kneel before beginning his address, but in this case, you’ll give that sign. All of you at once, preferably. Josen will welcome you then, and thank you for the honor you’ve done him. For you it only means ‘speak’, but for our people, he’ll call it an honor. And I don’t suspect this will be a problem for you, but for the sake of thoroughness: none of you should say anything before he does. None of that constitutes a mortal insult among the Abandoned, I hope?”
A strange look passed over Zerill’s face, and she looked up at the sky so that the light washed over her pale skin. She didn’t answer for a long time.
“Zerill? What is it?”
Zerill lowered her face to look at Shona once more. “I have waited a very long time to walk freely under the sun,” she said, almost wistfully. “Do you think… will it change anything if we do all this? Azra has told me the way your people looked at her, the things they whisper about us. If we stand properly, and show the right signs, and speak only when we are meant to speak, will it make a difference? Will it matter if they see us in the light? Or will it only make them hate us more?” Her dark eyes were hard to read, but Shona thought she saw something in them that she’d never expected: fear.
And for the first time, it occurred to her that Zerill was, perhaps, not entirely the dauntless warrior-hero she’d believed her to be.
“It will take time,” Shona said. “But however they look at you, know that there are people here who understand what you did for us. You accomplished something that no one has in hundreds of years. You forced us to work together. I don’t know how you did it—sheer force of will, maybe—but you did. If not for you, the man who… who murdered my parents would be king right now.” Her throat constricted, and she blinked back tears. She hadn’t expected to say that, had been trying her best not to even think about it. Until she’d seen that fear in Zerill’s eyes. After everything this woman had done, she deserved better. “I… I wanted to thank you for that. For all of it. And someday the rest of the Peaks will too. When you and I are both gone, they’ll still be telling stories about the woman who came out of the Swamp and changed everything.”
Zerill stared at her for a moment with those black, unreadable eyes, and then, “I never thought I would hear words like that from a highlander.” She took a hesitant step forward, and laid a hand on Shona’s shoulder. “I am sorry for what happened to your family. I know something about how you feel. Lenoden Castar took my sister from me.”
“I didn’t know. Josen never said.”
“No,” said Zerill. “He wouldn’t have.” Whatever she meant by that, she didn’t elaborate. “Josen means well, but it is easy to see that he would be lost without you. He needs someone to keep him from following whatever whim enters his head. Without a strong leader to guide them, your people will never accept mine. The Abandoned are the same. It can be… difficult to convince them what is best. But you and I, I think we understand what must be done, to give meaning to what we have lost. It will fall to us to make certain that both sides follow this road through to the end. Will you do that with me?”
Spirit of All, she makes it sound like we’re the same somehow. Zerill was a leader and a warrior, who had brought her people above the mist for the first time in centuries; Shona had spent her life overseeing fields and farmers. She’d fought for this responsibility, for the right to shape the future of the Peaks, but when she compared herself to Zerill, she didn’t know if she was equal to it. But I suppose I have to be. Isn’t that exactly what she’s saying? There’s no one else.
Shona took a deep breath, and said, “I’ll do my best. Castar has to be stopped.”
“Your best has already proven better than his, or I would still be locked away beneath Greenwall.” Zerill smiled, just slightly. “It will be enough.”
Shona didn’t know what to say. How is it that a swampling seems to notice what I’m capable of than most anyone in the Peaks ever has?
A moment later, the creak of wooden gates made an answer unnecessary.
Zerill’s guard turned at the sound, hands moving to the hafts of their weapons, but the guards at the gate let through only a single man, too young and gawky to be very threatening. A messenger from the Aryllian Keep by his sash, blue fringed with gold. Eyeing the swamplings, he approached, and bowed awkwardly before Shona.
“La—Duchess Falloway.” He stumbled over her new title; Shona wished he’d forgotten it altogether. It still felt like it belonged to her father, and the reminder was always painful. “Chancellor Polt sends a message. It… isn’t meant for others to hear.”
Shona could easily have led the man to a more private spot—the festival grounds were large enough, and mostly empty—but after the promise she and Zerill had just shared, it would have felt dishonest. If we are allies, let us trust each other.
“You can speak freely here,” she said.
And immediately regretted it.
“It’s the king, Your Grace. He’s gone.”
Shona’s eyes snapped to Zerill. “I’m sure he’s just—”
“Following one of his whims.” Zerill looked almost amused. “As I said: it falls to us. Go. Find him before he does something foolish.”
“Knowing him, it’s already too late for that.” Shona squared her shoulders and turned t
o the young messenger. “I need you to take Eroh to the Keep for me. I’ll see that you have an escort. Deliver him to Cer Falyn Morne, and then bring this message to Chancellor Polt: he’s to call back any men he has searching for Josen. We can’t allow word of this to get out.”
“He’ll want to know what you mean to do instead.”
“Tell him not to worry,” said Shona. “I know where to look.”
Josen
Josen looked out into the mist from the end of a Cliffside alley, clutching Aryllia’s Crown in one fist. In his right hand, he gripped the end of a simple wooden walking cane. He couldn’t walk very far without it, of late.
The early morning sun wasn’t yet high enough to banish the shadows from the narrow street, but beyond the cliff’s edge light glinted off the mist in flashes of dark green and pink and blue. Pretty, but there was something unsettling about it too—it was hard not to remember a similar view rising up to meet him as he fell. Much like the standing ground, there was nothing between him and the cliff’s edge here; the iron fence had long since rusted and broken away, leaving only a few bent posts jutting out of the ground. But there was no wind at his back to blow him over, this time. Berian’s Rest brought with it a number of things he wasn’t looking forward to, but at least he was safe on that count.
When he heard footsteps behind him, he knew who it was without looking. It could have been any of the thousands of people who lived and worked in Cliffside, but something told him that it wasn’t.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to jump,” he said. “I’ve already tried that. It didn’t agree with me.”
“Well, that sets my mind at ease,” Shona said from somewhere behind.
Her steps slowed, and then she was beside him at the edge of the cliff. He didn’t look at her, just kept his eyes on the mist. They’d stood together there once before, years ago; the first time he’d let her down, but far from the last.
“Has there been any sign of Rudol?” Among the dead, he meant but didn’t say.
“Not yet. Or of my father. We… might not find them. It doesn’t mean they’re alive.”
She was right. A great many men had been lost that day, and many of them had left no bodies behind—the Deeplings had seen to that. Not Rudol, though. He was still alive when the sun chased them away.
“I know,” he said. “I just… want to put him to rest if I can.”
“I’m sorry, Josen. I never should have let him leave the Keep.”
“I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t. He saved my life.” He’d already told her that much, though not the whole of it. Not the curse. Rudol wouldn’t have wanted her to think of him that way, and he’d always loved Shona better than Josen had. It felt right that she should remember him for something good.
“I wish I could thank him for that,” said Shona. “I was… hard on him, the last time we spoke. I don’t know that I regret it, really, but… there were other things I might have said, too.”
“He knows,” said Josen. “He had his grudges, but he never did learn how to hold one against you.”
She didn’t say anything to that. For a long time, she didn’t say anything at all.
And then: “A lot of people are waiting for you, you know. If you aren’t jumping, what are you doing?”
Josen looked down at the crown of blue glass he held clenched in his fist. “I was considering getting rid of this thing before it’s too late.” He’d managed to sit through days of diplomatic talks with the swamplings without ruining anything, a figurehead for Shona to speak through, but as the coronation drew nearer, the walls of the Keep had begun to close in on him again. He’d been crowned once already, as the heir apparent when he was young, but it hadn’t been real to him then; he’d hated it, but only because it was boring, one of many obligations he’d found stifling. Now that it meant something, it was too real by far. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“You have to, Josen. This isn’t over because we won a single battle, if you can even call that winning. We still have a war to fight. Castar lost men, but he won’t take long to recover, and someone has to stop him. People have died to stop him. Too many.” She was talking about her parents; Josen didn’t have to look at her face to know that.
“Believe me, I’m very aware of that. It’s part of why I can’t. They deserve someone better.”
“Who?” Shona asked. The same question he’d asked himself a hundred times. He didn’t have an answer. “Either the last Windwalker revealed himself to you, or to Castar. No one else was there. Did you ever think that maybe that means something? That maybe you were chosen for this? There aren’t many who could fight Castar for the support of the people, but the lowborn have always loved you. And now they believe you’re the king prophesized in the Word. Who else can say that?”
“I don’t even think I can say that anymore. Maybe before, but… look at me.” He gestured down his left side. “I’m not the man they loved. I’m broken. I’m the Swampling King to them now.”
“That’s why it has to be you. For the swamplings. For Zerill. That woman saved you. She saved all of us. You owe her this. And I… I know what she means to you. I’ve seen how you look at her.”
Josen sighed. “As it turns out, I’m just as stupid as you thought I was. But I know it can’t happen. Like you said, the last thing she needs is for me to play at being her hero.”
“For once, I don’t think you were. I think maybe she was yours.” Shona’s hand moved, hesitated, and then came to rest atop his on the head of his cane. Neither one of them looked away from the horizon. “I’m not going to try to convince you that you’re perfect, Josen. You aren’t. But there is one thing I’ve always loved about you: you’ve always tried to help the people no one else wants to help. Maybe she saved you more than you saved her, but no one else would have given Zerill the chance she needed. And no one in the Peaks is going to stand for the swamplings now if you won’t.”
“Spirit of All, Shona, how can you… ” Josen hung his head. She was trying, but that only made it worse. He’d failed her as much as anyone. Still, he didn’t pull his hand away. “You should know better than anyone that I’d make an awful king. Most of the time I barely manage to just do as you say. Have you forgotten that I almost pushed Cer Falyn into open rebellion not a turn ago, even after you tried to warn me? I’m still the same man who let you down all those times. People don’t change.”
“Maybe not.” Shona was quiet a moment, and then, “But I think sometimes, when they need to, they get better at being who they are. You’re not a different man, but you’re not the same as you were, either. You’ve always been driven to help people, but usually you get… distracted. Bored. This time, when it mattered, you didn’t. You saw that the swamplings deserved something better, and you came a very long way to make that possible. You fought for it.”
“Zerill did. I just followed her. Honestly, she didn’t give me very much choice.”
“Maybe not at first, but she wasn’t here when you showed Eroh’s true face to the Plateaus, was she? This alliance with her people couldn’t have happened without you. And it won’t last for long if you run away. They still need you, Josen. She still needs you.” Shona took a deep breath, then; he heard it catch in her throat. “I still need you. I’ve been trying to act like I know how to do this, but I don’t. My father taught me how to count grain yields and manage trade treaties, not how to win a war. Maybe he would know what to do, but he’s gone. My mother is gone. Rudol is gone. You’re all I have left.” She turned to him at last, and there were tears in her eyes. “You didn’t want to do this alone. Please don’t ask me to.”
God Above, she watched her mother die a turn ago and I’m making her comfort me? If anyone deserves to run away from this, it’s her. And she’s still here. For a long time, he just looked at her, trying to find some excuse that didn’t sound weak and insincere. Some way to let her down again and make it seem like the right thing. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t, and for once he couldn’t
find a lie good enough to make himself believe it was.
So, finally, he did what he did best.
He forced a smile.
“Well when you put it that way…” He placed Aryllia’s Crown on his brow at what he hoped was a jaunty angle.
Shona blinked away her tears and raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t a joke, Josen.” But the corner of her mouth quirked upward.
“Then why does it sound so ridiculous?” He took her hand from where it rested atop his, and squeezed it. It took everything he had to keep his grin in place.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go be king.”
Zerill
Zerill looked up the stairway that led to the Orator’s Rise, and clenched her fists to stop her hands from shaking. Only a few steps above, the Godspire’s shadow drew a firm line against the sun. She wasn’t ready to give up the light.
Highlanders stood all along the street on both sides, watching. Thousands of them, held back only by a rope cordon and a heavily outnumbered assignment of guardsmen standing at far too infrequent intervals. Behind, where her people had already passed, spectators swarmed into the road, following in an ever larger crowd. All through the city, it had been the same: a forest of dark-skinned, small-eyed faces, staring as if the Abandoned were the monsters in one of their festival shows. She’d never walked among them like this, in full daylight with no hood or mask to hide behind. In her dreams, when she walked under the sun, she never felt so naked.
But the highlanders didn’t jeer or shout, as she’d feared they would. She heard few of the insults that Azra had warned her about; what murmurs there were had the sound of fear and apprehension more than anger. She supposed she couldn’t blame them—she felt much the same way. Looking up that long grey stair at the mountain peak far above, it was hard not to fear what came next.
Verik touched her shoulder, and she turned to him. Zerill? he signed. What’s wrong?
The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1) Page 93