Heir of Autumn

by Giles Carwyn

  Victeris smirked. “Is that overconfidence I hear?”

  Krellis shook his shaggy head. “Not this time.”

  Their father’s look had slowly faded from Victeris’s eyes. He was back to his old impudent smirk. “Then I will wait, for now. I am a patient man. But I want that girl alive. When the time comes, she is mine.”

  “Very well.”

  Victeris smoothed his robes and headed for the door. He paused with his hand on the latch. “One more thing. I am curious what you offered Father Lewlem that will buy his assistance against Phandir.”

  “I offered nothing to the messenger. I made my offer to the Emperor.”

  Victeris’s eyebrows raised and his smirk faded. “And what did you offer the Unseen Monarch?”

  “I know what became of the Lost Brothers,” Krellis said, waving a hand as if it did not matter. “They seem very interested in this knowledge.”

  “They are alive? I assumed they all died of some unpleasant intestinal disease in the Vastness.”

  “No. Some of them still live, or they did a year ago. The fools believe they are protecting the legacy of Efften.”

  Victeris’s eyes narrowed. His impudent smirk faded. Krellis turned, looked at him strangely.

  “The Emperor believes the legends are true,” Victeris said in a flat tone. It wasn’t a question. He studied his brother like a cat watching a ripple of water.

  “Yes. And if he is willing to believe in a fairy tale, I’m happy to sell it to him.”

  When Victeris spoke again, his voice was low, deadly. “Do you have any idea what you’re giving away? You should have told me about the Lost Brothers and what they protect. You should have told me immediately.”

  Krellis laughed. “Trent was right. I ought to send you to the Cinder.”

  “The Cinder? I thought they were in the Vastness.”

  “That’s where their last letter came from. They moved the child there to keep her safe.”

  “Our mother and I spent two generations perfecting our powers,” Victeris hissed. “Yet Zelani is only one of ten paths the sorcerers of Efften traveled on a daily basis.”

  “For all the good it did them. They were slaughtered by drunken pirates. Let the Opal Emperor play with his toy. It makes no matter to me.”

  Victeris watched Krellis with the cold eyes of a snake.

  “It should, my brother. It should.”

  13

  VOMIT DRIPPED from Brophy’s chin. He breathed through his mouth, his nose filled with bile. His stomach pitched and heaved as if the entire Great Ocean raged inside him. The dim room echoed with his suffering, the low ceiling seeming to creep closer and closer. How could he feel this bad and not die?

  He sat on a short wicker stool over the latrine hole. Every time he closed his eyes the room spun, and he vomited out of his mouth, out of his nose, out of his Seasons-be-damned eyes. Even when he had completely emptied his stomach, the retching didn’t stop. If he didn’t gulp down the soup, dry heaves ripped him apart, twisting his body up like a puppet on mismatched strings. He didn’t think he could hate anything more than the vile puke, but somehow puking nothing was worse.

  He’d finished praying to the Seasons hours ago. It didn’t do any good. Nothing did any good.

  Another surge bubbled up his throat, and he leaned over. He spewed most of the green, goopy soup into the bucket in front of him. Ossamyr had sent three pots to him with instructions to eat as much soup as he could, and then eat more.

  So far he hadn’t managed it. Everything that went down came back up. Athyl was right. Brophy didn’t care if he died. He had been in the amphitheater latrine for hours. Four of the Nine Squares attendants carried him here as he trailed vomit across the arena floor. And here he had remained.

  During the resting moments between heaves, when he sat thinking, dripping, he imagined choking the life from Phee and his kinsmen. With vomit on his feet, his legs, his hands, his lips, Brophy imagined breaking Phee’s arm. He longed for the chance. He was sick of playing the fool, tired of being defeated.

  “If you live through the night, you’ll have the stomach of a Crocodile,” a soft, slightly accented voice said. “I drank some of that water fifteen years ago. I can still scoop a bloated rat out of a sewer drain and slurp it down without so much as a stomach rumble.”

  Brophy looked up. Scythe stood in the doorway, legs apart and arms crossed, his white robes dusty as if he’d just walked the length of Physendria. The white cloth veil dangled against his cheek, hanging from his head wrap. His features were even more harsh and angular in the flickering torchlight. Brophy gave him a look he hoped was mean, then leaned over and puked again.

  “What are you doing here?” Brophy mumbled through wet lips. “I thought you’d be long gone after collecting your reward.”

  Scythe’s eyes narrowed. He paused a moment, then said, “You aren’t delivered yet. You’re in the middle of the journey, and you still have a long way to go.”

  With a shaky hand, Brophy grabbed the ladle from the last pot of green soup and brought it to his lips. He got most of it into his mouth and forced it down. He couldn’t tell the difference between the taste of the vomit and the taste of the soup.

  “Not in the mood for your riddles,” Brophy mumbled. “Tell me what you want, then leave.”

  “I just returned from Ohndarien,” Scythe said.

  Brophy jerked his head up. His stomach lurched, and he threw up what he’d just eaten. He missed the bucket by half a foot, splashing green goop on the floor again.

  Scythe continued. “Krellis has declared himself lord of the city. He put out the torches of the Lost Brothers and placed the Sisters under house arrest.”

  Brophy gritted his teeth. His visions of strangling Phee changed to visions of strangling Krellis.

  “You will be happy to know that the Sisters were more resourceful than Krellis thought. They escaped their captors and found sanctuary in the Heart. Your friend Shara is with them.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “To motivate you.”

  Brophy’s gut rumbled again, but in a different place, lower. He leaned back and another explosion of diarrhea let loose. They had become so unpredictable that he just stayed on the privy seat. Scythe seemed to have a knack for catching Brophy at his most vulnerable moments.

  “Your aunt asked me to come here.”

  “Why?”

  “To train you.”

  “It’s difficult to believe my aunt would trust a man like you,” Brophy growled. He wished he could just die. Then Scythe would go away. Krellis would go away. Brophy would go away.

  “And what kind of man am I?”

  “Callous. Brutal. Cold-blooded. Or did you forget what you did to that man outside Ohndarien’s walls?”

  Scythe shrugged. “It’s true. I am all of those things. But if you were more ruthless, you wouldn’t be bleeding out your backside right now.”

  It was too dark in the latrine to know if there was blood in Brophy’s feces, but he didn’t doubt it.

  “Does everyone hate you,” Brophy asked, “or just me?”

  Scythe smiled mirthlessly. “I’m not here to make you happy, I’m here to make you strong.”

  “You’re doing a lousy job so far. Nothing good has happened to me since I met you.”

  “Only a fool blames the storm crow for the storm.”

  “What two-penny singer did you hear that from?” Brophy mumbled.

  “Your aunt.”

  Brophy held his belly and waited for a wave of pain to pass. “Why did you bring me here? If Bae trusted you to help me, why would you bring me here, of all places? I hate it here.”

  “If you had listened to me, you would never have been stung. The queen was the only person I knew who would help you. Would you rather I left you?”

  Brophy didn’t answer. Scythe was dodging the truth. One did not just walk into Physendria and command the queen to care for one of her sworn enemies. The queen had told him on
e version of the story. Brophy wanted to know if Scythe would tell the same. “Why did Ossamyr help you?”

  Scythe gave Brophy a sour smile. “She is an old friend of mine.”

  “Are you her lover?” he asked, stepping on the end of Scythe’s words.

  Scythe paused, regarded Brophy carefully before he answered. Brophy didn’t think he could feel any worse, but he did now. This ruthless little man had lain with Ossamyr.

  Scythe let out a quiet breath. “No. I have never shared the queen’s bed.”

  “Liar.”

  Scythe shook his head. Was that sadness on his face? Suddenly Brophy doubted himself. “No. I carried her favor in Nine Squares. We have remained close ever since.”

  “You played Nine Squares?” Brophy asked.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Did you win?”

  “Yes, I won.”

  Brophy rocked back on his butt, watching Scythe’s face. The man was telling the truth.

  “You got past the fire?”

  Scythe nodded. “And all the rest.”

  “Are you going to tell me it’s easy, once you know how?”

  “No. It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do, if you know how. If you don’t, it’s impossible.”

  They watched each other as the silence stretched between them. Scythe licked his lips, and Brophy suddenly realized where he had seen the man before.

  “You were that merchant from Vizar who dropped the coins in the privy!”

  Scythe nodded. “Yes I was.”

  “Why? Why did you deceive me like that?”

  “I wanted to know what kind of man you were before I agreed to help you.”

  Brophy remembered the mirrored pouch at Trent’s waist. He must have faced the same test and failed. “You say that my aunt knows I’m here? She wants me to fight in Nine Squares?”

  “Your aunt asked me to get you ready to take the Test. How I do it is up to me. She needs the Heir of Autumn to return and take Krellis’s place, by force if need be.”

  “What do you know about the Test?”

  “I know that sniveling little boys who feel sorry for themselves don’t pass it.”

  Brophy rose to his feet. He took a step forward, and a wave of nausea hit him. He stumbled. Scythe caught him by the arm and set him back on the privy.

  Brophy breathed through the wretched feeling, waiting for it to pass. When he could, he looked up into Scythe’s shadowed eyes.

  Brophy desperately wanted his aunt. He wanted her to put a cool cloth on his forehead and sing him to sleep. He wanted Shara here instead of Scythe, making fun of him, calling him a little kid, ruffling his hair. He wanted his father, doing whatever a father was supposed to do.

  But he didn’t have any of them. He had Scythe.

  “If I accept, what would you teach me?” Brophy asked.

  “What to eat and drink to prepare your body for the heat of the sun. How to drown a man before he drowns you. How to counterattack effectively while hanging from a tree. How to parry with fighting claws. How to climb the burning tower when you can’t see or breathe because of the smoke.”

  Brophy nodded.

  “You need strategy,” Scythe said. “Your conditioning as a Child of the Seasons is a great advantage. You have physical reserves that others do not, but Nine Squares is a social game as much as it is physical.”

  “I understand the strategy of the game,” Brophy said.

  Scythe raised an eyebrow. “Truly? The smell you’ve created says otherwise.”

  “I understand their strategy,” he grunted. “But I have a different one.”

  Uncrossing his arms, Scythe crouched down, still watching Brophy’s face. “Tell me.”

  “Nine Squares was created to break the spirit. Every one of these young men is shattered by this contest. It teaches them that they aren’t good enough. It teaches them that everyone is their enemy and that they need to lie, cheat, and backstab to get one step farther than the next player. I think Phanqui understands this, which is why he doesn’t really try.”

  “But he still plays,” Scythe said.

  “They all play. They have no choice, their families are depending on them. The few who get anywhere gather gangs, and then betray them later.” Brophy fixed Scythe with a steady gaze. “Is that what you did?”

  “Yes.”

  Brophy shook his head.

  Scythe ignored the look. “So you understand it. Who are you going to befriend, then betray in order to win?”

  “No one.”

  Scythe frowned. “Then you will not win.”

  “Yes, I will, but not by their rules. Nine Squares breeds treachery, isolation, brutality. I won’t play by those rules. Physendria is about to invade my home. I’m going to show them that one Ohndarien can succeed with loyalty and honor where a hundred Physendrians failed with ruthless aggression.”

  “You are trying to beat the game, not the players.”

  “Yes.”

  “The game is bigger than you.”

  “Like Physendria is bigger than Ohndarien?”

  Scythe narrowed his eyes. “You have your aunt in you,” he said softly, “and your father.”

  “You knew my father?” Brophy asked, shocked.

  “I met him once in Kherif, when I was…someone else.”

  “What was he like? What did he say?”

  “He never spoke to me directly. I watched him from the shadows as I watched everyone. He was a good man, and very quiet. He was someone great men notice immediately and fools never see. The Khaba had a strong respect for him.”

  “I never knew him,” Brophy said.

  “I know.”

  “I wish…” Brophy started. He shook his head. “I have a basic strategy, but there is still so much I do not know. Will you help me?”

  “Help you beat the game?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do not think it can be done the way you say.”

  “But will you help me try?”

  Scythe sighed. He shook his head and broke eye contact with Brophy for the first time. “I am a fool,” he said to himself. “But I have been a fool for your family for most of my life. For the part that matters.”

  Brophy was about to ask him what he meant when he continued suddenly, “I can teach you the tricks I know. But I am no easy teacher, I warn you.”

  “I am a quick study. If Bae trusts you, then so will I,” he said, feeling a sparkle of hope for the first time in ten hours. It was followed by a wave of nausea. He leaned over and heaved into the bucket. Nothing came out. He groaned.

  “I believe you are coming out of it,” Scythe said, standing up again.

  “How can you tell?” Brophy looked up at him miserably.

  “It has been a while since your last heave. You will survive.”

  “Just what I need, more bad news,” Brophy said.

  For the first time since Brophy had met him, Scythe laughed. A rich, deep belly laugh, it was not what Brophy would expect from the dried-up little man. Like a clap of thunder, it left as swiftly as it had come.

  “Tomorrow, we get to work,” Scythe said.

  14

  SHARA AWOKE alone in the dark.

  She blinked against swollen cheeks, tender to the touch. Her hands ached to the bones, as she curled her stiff fingers. The center of her stomach felt dried up, as if she hadn’t eaten for a week. She tried to curl up into a ball and winced. She couldn’t bend her knees, the slightest movement sent shocks of pain up her legs.

  I must crawl. Master will be angry if he finds me sitting still.

  Shara struggled to sit up and saw firelight reflecting off glittering cave walls. Muffled voices whispered in the distance. Was that Victeris?

  She rolled over to her knees and cried out in pain.

  The voices stopped. Whimpering, Shara crawled a few steps forward. The blanket slid off, the air was cool on her naked body. A thin chain dangled from her neck, and she grabbed it, finding a small pendant. The stone was warm on her
clammy hands, and she tightened her grip. Her breathing eased, and she felt better.

  A figure stepped out of the shadows. “Are you awake, dear?” asked a soft voice. “Don’t get up. Just stay where you are for now.”

  Shara felt a soft hand on her shoulder. Slowly, she settled back down. “Who are you?”

  “It’s Baelandra,” the woman said. “You’re safe. You are in the Heart.”

  “Where is Victeris?” Shara pushed the woman away. Her heart beat faster, her breaths came in little gulps, and her arms began shaking. She should be crawling.

  Shara realized she had stopped holding the stone and grabbed it quickly. The shaking subsided, and she lay back down.

  “Victeris is not here,” Baelandra murmured. “It’s all right. He cannot hurt you in the Heart.”

  A tall, slender silhouette suddenly appeared out of the shadows. Shara flinched, trying to crawl away.

  “That’s Vallia.” Baelandra put a comforting hand on Shara’s shoulder, but it felt like a prickly spider. She tried to shrug it off. “Don’t…”

  “She is awake?” Vallia asked tonelessly, crouching down next to Shara.

  “Awake and scared. We need to undo what was done to her.”

  Shara tried to crawl away from the two women, but she was so weak that Baelandra easily held her upright.

  “It’s all right,” Baelandra said. “We are here to help you.”

  Baelandra and Vallia lifted Shara to her feet; she winced every time her legs moved. Their fingers crawled on her skin, but she suffered their touch. She couldn’t stand without them.

  “Do you remember what happened?” Baelandra asked, leading her toward the torchlight.

  Shara licked dry lips. “I remember everything.”

  She crawled through the room, endlessly crawling, waiting for his return.

  She lay on that filthy bed as he slapped her, punched her, fucked her.

  Her hand sank deeper into the muck. Victeris knelt behind her, his hands on her back.

  Shara clenched her eyes, shutting the memories away. She sank to the floor, and fire lanced up her legs. Bae and Vallia pulled her upright.