by K. C. May
Gavin sighed. “Drop it. I haven’t forgotten that I owe her a death, but it’ll come when I say it comes.”
The old Cirang would have shot back an insulting quip. Gavin didn’t truly know the woman riding with them now, but from the way she averted her eyes and bowed her head, he suspected that her feelings of remorse for her actions were genuine and much deeper than Daia gave her credit for.
Chapter 10
Edan stayed up well into the mirknight, reading Jaesh’s find at the small table in his bedchamber. He turned the wick on the lamp, brightening his light, knowing he would regret staying up so late but unable to stop reading. It appeared to be a diary of sorts, but less about King Arek’s—then Prince Arek’s—personal life and more about significant political events of the past that he would one day need to understand as king.
The history text Edan had read as a boy said the Beresfards had succumbed to a disease and died out right around the time of the First Cyprindian War. It was highly speculated that their new enemy had found a way to poison the king and his would-be heirs, as well as anyone of the surname Beresfard who might produce an heir. Natham Engtury was then crowned, and his family held the rule until Arek’s death in the year 1431.
Edan turned a page and found another list, this one of Beresfards, many of whom were listed with the same year of death: 1246. That must have been the poison, killing off the royal family. On the page, one name caught his eye.
Gavin Ronor Beresfard Kingshield 1238-1257
Edan blinked hard at the page, wondering whether he was hallucinating from lack of sleep. Beresfard was scratched through and changed to Kingshield.
Could they have been trying to hide one of the Beresfards from the murderers? He flipped back to a page on which Arek had sketched the Beresfard family tree. Gavin Ronor Beresfard was the eldest first cousin of the last Beresfard king, Samuar. Since Samuar and his siblings died in 1246, Gavin Beresfard should have inherited the throne.
Except that Natham Engtury’s arse was already on it.
On the next page, almost a dozen more Beresfards, all men, were changed to Kingshields.
Edan stiffened in shock. Could Nathem Engtury have usurped the throne? Could he have been the one killing the Beresfards? He felt the blood drain from his head, and he clutched his writing table to keep from falling out of his chair. It couldn’t be. No, he mustn’t leap to any conclusions. He had to gather more information and examine everything with a clear head. It was late, and he needed sleep.
One passage seemed to leap from the page, demanding his attention.
My family’s biggest shame was perpetrated by my fifth-great grandfather, Natham Engtury, from whom my father inherited the throne of Thendylath. Not only did Natham force whomever was left of the royal family into servitude, he tattooed them and concocted a tale of how these so-called Kingshields were captured Cyprindian warriors whose lives he spared in exchange for their fealty and protection. Those who knew their true identities said nothing for fear of execution for treason against King Natham.
Edan looked at the names again, blinking hard to focus his tired eyes. What stuck out most about them, beyond Kingshield’s similarity to Kinshield, were the years of their deaths. They were all different: 1257, 1261, 1262, 1270, 1265, and 1277. All the Beresfards who hadn’t been changed to Kingshield had the same date of death: 1246. Those who’d changed their names to Kingshield were allowed to live, probably in anonymity.
“No,” he said aloud. “It can’t be.” He returned to the passage.
He used magic to garble their speech to perpetuate the myth that they were foreigners. Only the youngest and most cooperative of them were permitted to procreate, but they were required to pass on the surname Kingshield. It’s an atrocity of the utmost magnitude, but what is to be done? It was committed almost 170 years ago, and the guilty parties are mere dust and bones in their graves. Even my friend and champion, Ronor, doesn’t know that he’s descended from royalty.
“Hell’s bones!” Natham Engtury had usurped the throne and slaughtered every Beresfard who refused to change his name to Kingshield and serve him.
Edan had to speak with Gavin and show him this book. His name, his family name, shouldn’t have been Kinshield. It should’ve been Beresfard.
He rose and began to dress for bed, though his mind continued to churn. How daring had Natham Engtury been to execute such a devious plan? How mad? To think that Gavin might have inherited the throne anyway made his thoughts flutter. No, he supposed that wasn’t true. If Samuar Beresfard hadn’t been executed, his own sons would have inherited the rule, and Gavin would have been only a distant relative to the present day king—if he’d even been born at all.
Something moved in the corner of his eye, but it was gone before he’d gotten more than a glimpse: a tall person covered with fur with a face more cat-like than human. I’ve definitely stayed up too late, he thought.
Chapter 11
As they approached the city under the orange glow of sunset, Gavin masked himself and his companions. As before, he made himself and Daia into an elderly couple wearing tattered clothing and carrying canes, but this time, he disguised Cirang as a man, giving her the illusion of being portly so as to help mask her breasts. If her identity—her true identity—was that of a Nilmarion man, then maybe she would welcome having the appearance of one.
The stench of the dirty city assaulted Gavin, making him realize he had spent too much time in Ambryce in recent months. He hoped that once his business was concluded here, he wouldn’t have reason to return for at least a year. Maybe two, if he was lucky. Young boys ran through the city, lighting cressets on the main thoroughfares. The smells of family suppers and burning wood mingled in the street, inciting a grumble from Gavin’s stomach.
“I’m up for a bath and meal,” Daia said.
“You always say that in the wrong order. A meal and a bath.” Gavin winked at her.
“Unlike you, I prefer to be clean when I sit down for supper.”
“Unlike you, I get dirtier when I eat and need a bath afterwards.”
Daia laughed so hard that she snorted. That made him chuckle, and even Cirang laughed—a delightfully merry sound. Until then, he’d only heard her snicker.
They decided to spend the night at the Princess Inn to avoid having to ride across town to the lordover’s property and back again. They paid for two rooms at the inn, and Gavin gave in to the pressure to bathe before they met in the dining hall, where they feasted as if they hadn’t had a meal in days. Now that the danger of the wellspring water had been removed, his appetite returned and with a vengeance. He minded his manners at first, but judging from Daia’s refusal to look at him while they ate, he realized he’d lapsed into old habits.
He wiped his mouth and hands with the clean napkin the serving woman set on the table beside his plate. “Sorry. It’s like I got a ravenous beast in me,” he said. “It comes out when I’m hungry and doesn’t know how to eat neatly.”
“It doesn’t eat at all, Gavin,” she said quietly, still not looking at him. “It feeds.” She and Cirang had already finished eating and had pushed their plates away.
Her objection to his manners had never bothered him, and since his disguise kept him from being recognized, he didn’t feel the pressure to sit up straight or take small bites or chew in secret like he did sitting at the big table in the palace. He looked around at the others in the dining hall—men of business, families, and a couple warrant knights he’d known, perhaps not by name but by sight. Here, among regular people, Gavin felt comfortable. Here, he could pretend he’d never become a king at all.
“I miss my old life,” he said quietly.
“Try not to think about it,” Daia said. “It’ll only make you melancholy. We have work to do.”
“You’re the Wayfarer,” the Guardians said, their ghostly forms coming into view behind Cirang. “Your skills are needed.”
“By the—” Gavin said, startling. “Do you always eavesdrop like that?” People sittin
g at other tables turned to look at him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean you.”
Daia chuckled behind her hand. “I presume the Guardians are here?”
He nodded. If she couldn’t see them, then no one else could either.
Except for the boy staring, agape, from two tables over. “I see ghosts, mama. And the king!” the child said, pointing.
“We’d better go.” Gavin rose, and the others followed suit.
“Shall we visit Jennalia in the morning?” Daia placed several large silver coins on the table. “It’s late, and old people tend to retire earlier than the rest of us.”
Gaol cells spilled over with snarling, vicious beyonders shaped like humans. They escaped into the streets of Ambryce, tipping over carts and setting fire to homes and clawing to death the citizens who were trying to protect their families. He watched helplessly, unable to move. People yelled at him to do something, and they all became Feanna, holding his screaming infant son. She looked like Talisha. A red stain appeared on the front of her dress and spread, and then blood streamed across the baby’s skin. “Change me,” she cried, “before it’s too late.”
Gavin sat up in bed with a gasp. His heart pounded and his body was bathed in sweat. Feanna’s words echoed in his mind. She’d said “change me.” Why hadn’t she said “fix me?”
The answer struck him like a raging stallion: he could swap Feanna’s essence with someone else’s.
He got up and pulled on his trousers. There was no chance of going back to sleep that night, and so he stood with his palms on the windowsill, looking out at the city street, glowing under the blue-white light of the Moon.
“You cannot sleep?”
Gavin startled. “Shit. Do you always jump out o’nowhere like that?”
“We are always present. We don’t jump out of nowhere.”
“Well, quit sneaking up on me, then.”
“We don’t intend to sneak, Emtor, but we no longer make sounds. All we can do is insert ourselves into your awareness.”
Gavin sighed and looked back out at the quiet night. He would rather be left to his thoughts. “Well then, be quiet. I think I can fix my wife’s khozhi balance if I swap her essence with someone else’s.” Then an idea occurred to him. “Maybe yours?”
“You may not use our essence.”
“Why not? There’s no hope o’you returning to life. It’s trapped in that stone, doing nobody any good.”
“We... we don’t want to die.”
“You’re already dead.”
“Our bodies are dead, but we are still very much aware. If we allow ourselves to be reborn, we lose everything.”
Their ghostly forms looked smaller, more timid. “What do you lose?”
“Many years of knowledge, experience, hope...”
“Aren’t you lonely?” he asked.
“We were, but we have you now, Emtor, and we owe you a debt that will take your lifetime to repay.”
He gazed back up at the sky, starting to brighten to the east. “Then repay this debt by letting me use your essence. In return, I’ll set you free to live another life. You were young when you died. Don’t you want to marry, to experience parenthood, to help your community and live a normal life?”
They answered him with a long moment of silence. Finally, one of their two voices said, “We are afraid.”
He understood fearing death, fearing the physical pain and the uncertainty of what happens next, but they already knew what came next. The hardest part was over. “Look at my companion, Cirang. She’s been through something similar, and now she’s got a new life and a new body to live it with. Do you think she’d rather be stuck in a cat statue for all eternity?”
“Her circumstances were opposite our own, Emtor. Her spirit was trapped, but her essence was freed. She attached her spirit to another body and its essence.”
“That’s always the end result, isn’t it? A new body and new essence? She took her memories and knowledge with her. Hell, I remember stuff from many lifetimes ago too. I used to be Ronor Kinshield. If I can remember, you can.”
They faded from sight without replying. He didn’t think he’d convinced them, but if they were thinking about it, he was a step closer to having their consent. The question in his mind lingered: did he truly need it?
He left his room and knocked lightly on Daia’s door, eager to tell her about his dream and revelation. Cirang opened the door.
She was covered in blood and grinning wickedly. “Is anything wrong?”
Gavin took a reflexive step back. “What the hell?” Her lips were wet with blood, and her teeth were stained with it. He pushed past her into the room, horrified and desperate to know what had happened. In his palm, a light ball appeared and lit the room.
Blood soaked Daia’s bed and splattered the wall beside her. She lay abed, her chest and abdomen split open down the middle and her rib cage pried apart. A bloody cleaver was buried in her pelvis. Her deep purple heart sat still on her neck, and her pink, deflated lungs were draped over the ribcage. Intestines spilled from her belly like a mass of large worms entangled in each other.
His hands went cold, and his vision blurred with tears. “No,” he whimpered. He dropped the light ball, which floated down to the bed, and began to shove her organs back into her chest cavity. Maybe there was still a chance to save her. I can fix this. He willed his hands to warm with healing magic. Come on, come on!
Her eyes flew opened inside their skeletal sockets, ghoulish and staring. She began slapping at him, pushing him back as she sat up.
The blood disappeared. Her guts were gone. She’d become whole and healthy again in a blink.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Daia hollered. She pulled a blanket up to cover the thin nightshirt she wore.
Gavin spun and looked at Cirang. She stared back, agape, and without a drop of blood on her.
“You were... I saw... I thought—”
“King or not,” Daia said, her tone low and fierce, “you will not come into my room and grope me in the middle of the night. I won’t stand for it.”
“No.” He held up his hands defensively. “I wasn’t. I wouldn’t.”
“Do you see?” the Guardians said, appearing beside her. “We’ll use illusion against you if we must.”
“You did that to make a point?” he yelled.
“Did what? What are you talking about?” Daia asked. “Are you awake?”
Gavin went to a wall and, in his ever-mounting frustration, slammed his fist into it. The pain surged through his hand, his wrist, his arm, but in a sense, it provided relief from the ache in his soul. At least this pain made sense. At least it was something he could truly feel.
“Gavin! What are you doing?” Daia rushed to him and took his hand to examine it, but his healing magic had already dulled the pain and begun mending the cracked bones.
“The Guardians made me see things. I never meant to touch you like that. I’m sorry, Daia. I thought... I thought you were dead. You were covered in blood with your guts spilt out everywhere.”
She slid her hand gently, consolingly up his arm. “You tried to put my guts back in to save me? That’s so sweet.”
He looked into her pale blue eyes, confused at her sudden change in tone. Was she teasing him?
She fought to hide a smile. “Now you understand what Cirang and I went through. The Guardians are little bastards, aren’t they? They dig into your heart for your worst fears and then show them to you.” She rubbed his arm. “And your worst fear is losing me?”
“You’re all I got left,” he whispered.
For the first time, Daia put her arms around him in a tender embrace. “I’m not going anywhere.” She pulled back and looked up at him with a gentle smile. “It’s almost dawn. Why don’t we get dressed and break our fast.”
He nodded. “And I got something to tell you. I figured out how to fix Feanna.”
Chapter 12
By the time Gavin and his two battler companions finish
ed breaking their fast and started across Ambryce, the sun was fully up. The birds were chattering at each other from the few trees that remained within the city. The cries of merchants gave way to angry shouting and barking dogs as the trio left the market and entered the poor residential district. On the narrow dirt street where the mage lived, people stood in a line that led to the stoop of Jennalia’s small cottage, which wasn’t as ramshackle as Gavin remembered it. Nearly everyone was carrying casseroles, loaves of bread, blocks of cheese, or baskets of fruits and vegetables.
His heart dropped. Had Jennalia died? She’d been an old woman when he met her five or six months earlier, but she’d seemed spry enough, and he hadn’t sensed an illness eating away at her.
“What’s this?” Gavin asked.
“Are you all here to pay your respects?” Daia asked the fellow in the back of the line.
“Just an offering,” one man said. “Miss Jennalia won’t take coins for her spells, so we bring food.”
Gavin smiled, relieved she was well. “How can one tiny, old woman eat so much?”
“She shares with her neighbors, dunce,” shot the next woman in line.
Daia stiffened, but Gavin laughed disarmingly. The woman didn’t know she was addressing the king.
“In turn, they do repairs on her house and run errands for her,” the first man explained. “Who’re we to judge what she does with her payment? We come for her magic, and food’s the only currency she’ll accept.”
“We didn’t count on having to wait in line,” Daia said to him.
“Ever since word spread she enchanted the king’s sword,” the buck said, “everyone comes to beg for enchantments, healing, spells to find love. You name it, they ask for it. She turns away more than she accepts, though.”
“What are you here for?” he asked.
The man held up a gem. Its quality wasn’t nearly as high as the ones in Gavin’s sword, but it might hold a simple spell. “I’m a horse trainer. I’m hoping for a spell to let me talk to the horses in their language.”