The King's Blood

by S. E. Zbasnik

  Ciara ignored her instincts and she ran after the twin, Aldrin close on her heels. By the blazing inferno of her home, she watched Chance slowly lower Medwin to the ground off his brother's back. Unburdened, Chase collapsed face first into the snow. Ciara rolled him over, and tried not to recoil at the charred face frozen beneath her.

  "Where's Kynton?" she mumbled, "Gods, find that damn priest!"

  Aldrin ran off into the night looking for their only doctor.

  A solitary page rolled across the charred lands broken only by the few remaining islands of snow. It caught an updraft from the still smoldering ashes and lifted high into the sky. Ciara watched it without seeing, a distraction as she huddled around the mercifully contained bonfire, trying to help the Historians sort through what remained of their life.

  Pajamas and his crew did what they could but their caravan was totaled, only scraps could be salvaged. But that was what the traveling historians did best; they built their life up from the scraps and potato peelings discarded on the edges. One was already dead. Kaltar had been inside the wagon, the first to notice the fire nipping at his toes. He remained behind, pushing everyone out before the roof collapsed on him. And the others were...

  She glanced towards the twin's caravan, one of the only two remaining, and watched with over strained eyes. Aldrin dropped his hand down beside her and followed her line of sight. His blonde hair was still stained black from their fight against the smoke to free Medwin and Chase from the inferno behind. He bore a close resemblance to the elf he played in the stories Medwin...again she killed the thought, wishing she could see through wood.

  "It'll be okay," Aldrin said as assuredly as a man facing down a rampaging tax collector.

  "Don't say that!" Ciara recoiled, as if she were deathly allergic to his clichéd words of comfort, "You have no way of knowing if anything will be okay. Now, or ever again."

  "I..." he stuttered, shifting away from her, "you're right. I'm...I..." His sentence trailed off as he turned to watch the remaining Historians collapsing around the fire, trying to make sense of their new world. Mitrione kept twirling, of all things, a fork through his fingers. The meteorologist was babbling about how he never predicted a rain of fires, all signs pointed to nothing but clear skies with a small chance of toads. Dean Dean and the nameless associate professor were dabbing at the burns Pajamas suffered on his hands from standing too close to the fire. The flames ate through about five inches of his beard, leaving the ends charred and twisted like the body they all feared to find in the light of the rising sun.

  A sound, of a hand thudding hard against wood, broke through the silent night. Slowly the door of the caravan opened and Kynton appeared, his hands extended from his body as if they'd been coated in something worse than death. Most of his robes were covered in second hand soot. Ciara scrambled to her feet quickly and walked woodenly towards the exhausted priest, fearing what she'd hear. Aldrin trailed behind her, the eternal lost lamb. Kynton dug his hands into the snow, trying to wipe off as much of the gore as he could. Forgetting he had no towel, he dried his hands off on his robe, covering them in ash. In his state, he barely noticed.

  The girl came to a skid behind him. He sighed softly and turned to face a broken heart, "I did what I could."

  Her lip wobbled a moment, and it almost cracked the priest. If those golden eyes shed a tear, he'd have broken down right then and there. But she found some inner strength and regrouped her emotions, burying it all in the chest marked "Deal with later."

  "And," the prince forced him, too stupid or perhaps too insular to catch the subtle play of doctor to loved one.

  "There were extensive burns across both their bodies. It's unlikely either will last 'til morning," he said softly.

  Aldrin shook his head in disbelief; no, no. Chase ran into that fire like the heroes in all the old tales. They were both supposed to come out alive, coughing, maybe needing someone to clap them on the back, but soon they'd be laughing about their near brush with death and drinking tea.

  Ciara's body hardened to stone, like an angel guarding over a grave. Her face didn't move as the priest's words washed over her, and he wondered if she'd even heard. Softly, he took her hand and said in the same measured tone he prayed over that dying girl, "He asked to see you."

  For a moment her eyes cracked, the eagle's gaze softening, but she struggled and fought against the breakdown beating upon her. She couldn't, not now. Steeling herself, she dropped the priest's hand and turned towards the caravan's door. The prince stood dumbstruck, trying to come to grips with so much loss. His father's had been a phantom limb; a loss always on the edge of pain and never quite real, but this was a stab to his heart.

  Kynton placed a sooty hand on the boy's shoulder and said, "Go after her. She'll need you."

  Aldrin nodded dumbly and followed after. With no more eyes upon him, the man who ushered hundreds to their death sank to his knees.

  Only the soft candlelight of carefully shielded lanterns broke the soothing darkness. Ciara's eyes fought valiantly through still scorched lenses to make sense of the familiar but foreign world before her. The books had been shoved quickly off to the side as a couple of men hauled the burned bodies of their friends and companions through the door. Sooted footprints led the way to the hastily arranged beds tucked behind a privacy screen. Her arms wrapped around her body as a chill danced down her spine. The witch, who'd been hot on Kynton's trail as Aldrin returned with him, wandered slowly past Ciara, a familiar basin in her hands. The water was the same crimson of the Historian's robes.

  Isa paused, her mouth open to give some platitude or condolence, but found only cotton on her tongue. Instead, she pointed towards the beds and turned to leave, bumping into Aldrin. Ciara didn't hear either of them as she summoned up the courage to shuffle around the screen and face her own nightmares.

  The shaking mass of Chance eclipsed the first bed. He sat on his knees as if in prayer, but all that escaped from his mumbling lips were a plea for his brother, "Wake up. You have to wake up. They're going to be urinated if you don't wake up."

  His fingers held onto the bandaged stump of what had once been Chase's hand, caressing it as if they were an ill dog. The twin was unrecognizable, nearly all of his flesh eaten away by the fire, leaving behind muscle and ruddy sinew. Most of the twisted face was covered in light linen, trying to bring moisture back to damaged tissue. Only the still fluttering eyelids at his brother's whispers belied that Chase was already gone.

  A voice rose from the further bed, muffled under the blankets piled on top of his broken body. Ciara tempered whatever remained of her resolve and walked around Chance, her hand skimming along his shoulders. The man didn't even react to her touch. Candlelight flickered about the room, casting frivolous shadows on the somber room. The orange light seemed a cruel mockery of the final body buried deep in bedclothes. A deep set of burns scratched out his face, filling in the missing piece of his old scars. The eyelids fluttered open and milky white gazed out at the ceiling.

  "Karli," his voice was little more than a whisper on the wind as he called out. Ciara dropped to her knees, uncertain what words to speak.

  "Karli, are you there?" his pleas broke her cracking heart and she scooped his limp hand into hers.

  "I, I'm here," she didn't know where lies to the dying rated on mortal sins but right then she didn't give a shit.

  A tiny smile flirted across his still lips at her touch, before they fell back, "I failed you."

  "No, you didn't," Ciara argued back, trying to convince herself.

  "You should have never been in the library. Your mother always forbade it. I'm so sorry," the words broke against his dying throat and he struggled to swallow.

  A small cry broke from the girl pretending to be his dead daughter. The noise startled Medwin such that even through his struggles he started to raise his hand. Ciara brought it to her lips and kissed the dead flesh.

  "Can you forgive me?" his plea struggled through a slow rise of dry te
ars, all his excess moisture lost to the fire.

  The hardest block of Ciara's wall burst and all the pain, the loss, the broken hope, and the destruction hit her with his one question. Her tears coated Medwin's hand as she held it close to her cheek. Unwatched by all, Aldrin stood silently in the corner, his own face a torrential downpour as the strongest force he knew in the universe broke apart before him.

  Summoning her voice through a quivering shake, she nodded into the hand and said, "Yes. Always."

  The smile returned to Medwin's lips and he leaned deep into his pillow. Slowly the milky white eyes closed for the final time. Ciara spent the entire night clinging to his limp hand, crying for every moment he'd never see.

  The rosy fingers of dawn bathed the fresh day in her warmth, reaching out to all except the bowed heads shivering around a large pyre. Medwin was laid upon it gently by the priest, his body still wrapped in the blankets and bandages. Ciara trailed behind, her soul numb and sore.

  Aldrin spent most of the night watching her, uncertain what to say or do, and used that excuse to fend off the twisting sob building in his gut. A call for wood erupted from the gathering of Historians and, turning away from Ciara still praying before the dying man's bed for a moment, he watched Isa, of all things, ordering the men around. Her hair was charred as badly as his, and exhaustion hung off her shoulders, but still the witch tossed her head back and got the men working.

  It was a few minutes before Aldrin realized what they were working on. Brush and kindling, pulled from fallen branches, piled into a heap. A heap that could hold more than one body. The prince jammed his fist into his mouth to stifle the cry of rage building beneath. His floundering was interrupted by the arrival of Kynton, whose head was bowed low in deference to the suffering within.

  The priest pushed back the prince, not able to waste any waning energy on the boy. Instead, he calmly touched Ciara on the shoulder. She jerked as if she'd been caught in the middle of a dream and her eyes stared up into the priests. He smiled wanly and put a guiding hand to her. As she rose to her feet, the lack of blood flow to her legs gave way and in a quick move, Kynton slipped his arms around her waist and kept her upright. She was so far gone she didn't react to his helpful hug, only going limp in doctorly arms. After he'd steadied her, he let go, not failing to catch a small seething glare from the prince. Any other time he'd have pressed his luck more. Instead, he placed his arms underneath the man who gave up his ghost hours before and lifted Medwin up.

  The body was much lighter than he expected, no longer weighed down by the well traveled soul of the man who watched over more than many could ever dream. As he walked around the girl, she reached out in a fit and grabbed the nearest hand to her. That just happened to be the boy's. Surprisingly, he didn't react much, just watched the priests march solemnly. The twin said nothing at the morbid procession, only shifting slightly so his leader's feet didn't kick him in the head. It was the first sign of life Chance gave since Chase stopped moving.

  Every living historian gathered around the pyre, their mouths hushed for a rare moment in time. Bartrone stood like the Bringer of Light in the temples of Argur, a blazing torch in his hand. The meteorologist and Mitrione both held their heads in their hands, a sign of respect from those to the east. That it was also considered a sign of disrespect in the west made for some interesting funeral wars in the midlands.

  "Someone should say something," Aldrin said, looking at Kynton. But the priest was uncertain how one ashed a man who put as much faith in the gods as he did in all his socks coming back from the launder.

  Bartrone looked around at his fellows, with both Medwin and Kaltar's deaths, they were his charges now. The responsibility hung upon his neck, "We commend to the flames the body of our mentor, Medwin la'Talser. He...he gave to the world more than he ever asked."

  The new Chancellor looked around at his fellows, bloody and bruised, but not broken, "And he would not want us to cower under this tragedy, but grow from it. To let it teach the world."

  A heckle tried to crawl out of Pajama's throat, "Teach it what? That wood's flammable?" but he shushed it to sleep with a toffee.

  Bartrone approached the pyre with his torch, "Goodbye, our fallen star." He placed the flame against the kindling.

  "STOP!"

  Chance appeared from out of the caravan, a substantial bundle cradled in his arms. He walked heavily, his shoes sinking in the wet snow and mud from the warming morning. "There ain't no reason to waste so much kindling," he said pragmatically, his voice deadened from all emotion.

  Batrone rose from his stoop, pulling his torch away from the fire. Chance looked into the man's eyes and nodded. Slowly, he laid out his brother next to Medwin, placing the Chancellor's head upon Chase's arm.

  Chance leaned down over his brother's corpse, fussing to make certain his hands were covered, he hated cold hands, and softly kissed him on the forehead. "You be good up there, no getting into trouble. Not without me, anyway," he whispered, unable to tear his hand away from the cold cheek.

  Bartrone's hand landed upon Chance's shoulder and squeezed it companionably. As the solitary twin turned to look at him, the new Chancellor passed over the torch. For a moment, his eyes were lost in the dance of the flame, contained but ready to unleash damage at a flick of the wrist. Without saying a word, Chance held the fire against the sticks, watching the kindling catch and burst.

  He stepped back, the torch still blazing in his hand as its brethren spread across his own. Ciara's spare hand reached out and found Chance's lonely one. Together they watched the rising smoke and ash.

  Grumblings started low as the despair gave rise to anger: What started the fires anyway? Was it you, always leaving your socks too close to the brazier? Me! You're the one that never properly closes his lantern. I thought I saw Mitrione skulking about last night with a candle and one of them banned books.

  "I was not!" he cried in indignation, facing down a sea of hatred.

  "Then why were you outside the caravan when it caught on fire?" Dean pressed on him.

  "Stop," Ciara muttered under her breath.

  "I was doing very important things!" Mitrione shot back at Dean, no one hearing the girl holding her arms close to her body.

  "Like setting our homes on fire," Dean continued.

  "What about Bartrone?" the man on trial shouted suddenly, trying to shift the blame to anyone he could think of.

  The accused turned away from the still burning bodies to glare at the fat fuck, "What of me?"

  "Doesn't it seem peculiar that out of all of us it's Medwin and Kaltar who are burned up, leaving you free to take command."

  "You..." he stepped into Mitrione's gravimetric pull, a finger waving into the triple chin, "you dare accuse me."

  "We all know what you were before," Mitrione didn't back down from the threatening digit, "Thief."

  "STOP!" Ciara's voice cracked like thin ice across the bickering masses. "This infighting, this finger pointing, this bitching will get us nowhere. It won't bring anyone back, and it certainly won't answer for this tragedy."

  The historians looked to their shoes, cowed by the slip of a girl running on her single nerve. She didn't stare at anyone, her eyes still watching the burning fires.

  "I believe I can be of some assistance," a honeyed voice quipped from behind her.

  Ciara and Aldrin spun about to watch their assassin dragging a man by the scruff of his neck. The man's arms and legs were bound, but he still kicked like a fish out of water.

  Taban dumped his cargo beside the still smoking pyre, "This is your murderer." The man's face was painted purple and black with bruises under both his eyes and his chin. A trickle of blood dribbled from his mouth. Aldrin glared at the assassin after taking in the damage, and Taban shrugged, "He did not wish to come quietly."

  Ciara looked away from the man clawing at the ground, trying to find some way to rise. Taban put his heavily booted leg on top of the prisoner, trapping him in place. In response, he squealed like
a pig in a chute. The other historians were thrown off by this chain of events, treachery always came from within.

  The only movement came from Chance as he dumped his torch into the snow and methodically reached down to the prisoner. A might he'd used to carry his only brother to the pyre lifted the gabbing man up until his legs dangled helplessly off the ground. Pure fury glared into the glassy eyes of the insane. "I could snap your neck," Chance whispered to the prisoner, who still rocked back and forth in his chains.

  "You..." the man started to say, before the mighty hands of the solitary twin cut off his air supply. Aldrin placed a hand on Chance, and he shifted so the prisoner could cough out his last words, "you can't hurt me."

  "Can't I?" Chance asked softly as his thumb hooked inside the man's trachea. The historians turned away as the prisoner gasped for air, not wanting to watch the death of the man who killed their own. Only Taban and Aldrin looked on, one in appreciation for the skill, the other in horror.

  "Why?" Ciara's voice was soft but pulled Chance's thumbs away, letting oxygen back in. "Why'd he do it?"

  "Who cares why he did it," Mitrione responded, getting a taste for blood, "all that matters is he pays for it."

  "Then all this death, all this loss will mean nothing. Less than nothing," she spat back at him, her eyes flaming in the light.

  Mitrione mumbled, but slipped back into the flock, wilting under her desert stare. Someone in the back began to nitpick "How can one have less than nothing? By its very definition nothing is the absence of anything," but he was hushed up by the other fellows afraid of the sand worm's wrath.

  She broke from the fire and finally looked upon the wild face of the man dangling inches from death. His hair was shaggy, with brush and mud worked throughout it, though that could have been from a night with Taban who watched her with an expectant eye. The clothes gave even less of a hint as to who he was, a nearly carbon copy of the peasant attire of every man they'd saved in Tumbler's End.