by EF Joyce
If the rebellion had a place like this – ten times the cost of a guard barrack, then they had seemingly endless resources. Where had they gotten the credits? The manpower to build this place and keep it from Arcadia's eye? Who was the Monarch really and what did he want? He'd often entertained the idea that the Monarch worked for Arcadia and the rebellion was a setup – a fake war to see who in The Unders would rise up, to gather those insurgents and crush them all at once. Drexel shuddered at the thought and pushed it from his mind. That couldn't be true – Arcadia wouldn't sacrifice so many of its own just to squash a potential uprising.
When they entered Damien's office, the other man left the room. Drexel nervously shifted his weight and examined all the guns hanging from the wall behind Damien's head. They were new and high tech – Arcadian military grade. Again he wondered who the Monarch was and how they were able to get such supplies. Perhaps he would find out.
"You have a problem," Damien said, his deep blue eyes troubled. "I thought you were a rebel. I thought you wanted to stand beside us and take Arcadia down."
"I do," he rebutted instantly.
"Really? Because you couldn't seem to get it together and pull the trigger on your enemies while your comrades were dying!" Drexel swallowed hard and stared at the floor. Damien was right, he was always right. Drexel the coward.
"Drexel GHQ357889," Damien said, rattling off his long Unders' ID number by memory, "I thought you were different."
A shiver ran down Drexel's spine and his vision clouded then cleared. He smelled blood and sweat and something else, putrid and thick. Haydi's screams rattled his skull, sudden and piercing, echoing through his core, piercing his soul, draining him of everything but an all-encompassing, scorching, transforming rage. The gun was in his hand, light and dry and steady, pointed at the soldier's face. He had crooked yellow teeth, black hair, a scar on his upper lip.
Go ahead, coward, he'd laughed. Drexel had pulled the trigger. And then Damien's office and reality snapped back to him as suddenly as it had rushed away.
"I thought you had fire!" Damien said, yelling at him, not in anger but in frustration, trying to see him, trying to change him.
"What did you do?" Drexel asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead. That was real, real, he had felt it all over again.
"You're not the only one with magic," Damien said, calm now, quiet. "I can see into your mind, your thoughts and your worries and memories. You're a good man, a good rebel, but you judge yourself too harshly and your enemies not harshly enough."
Drexel sank down into the chair across from Damien's desk, still reeling from having to relive his worst memory, the moment that had shaped him into who he was – a rebel, a fighter, a young man with purpose. And the fact that Damien had magic. Damien has magic? He can read my thoughts like stories? Watch my memories like telo-dramas?
"Taking life should never be easy," Damien said while Drexel stared uselessly at the cement floor and his scuffed boots. "Every man I've killed weighs heavy on my conscious and it used to be impossible for me, like it is for you. But I spoke to the Monarch and he made me understand that these men are our enemies. They have families, friends, people who love them. Of course they do. But so do we and they will not hesitate to shoot us, to kill us.
"Yes, they are mortal men, and yes it's natural to feel sorry for them, but they are also more than men. They are the might of Arcadia, holding us down. They are the voice of Arcadia, telling us no. They are the gun of Arcadia, taking our lives. I wish we could have a peaceful negotiation, but we can't. The royal family and the syndicate refuse to hear us. This is war, and war is hard, cold and remorseless. We do this now so that our children will have a life we've only dreamed of, free of war and violence."
"I know," Drexel replied. He'd heard it all before – the very reasons he fought for the rebellion. So no one else would ever have to go through what Haydi had.
"You know in your head, but you don't know in your heart. You will. I want you to go with Meric to the underground market tonight. You'll be investigating a group calling themselves Protectors of Peace. They're marketing anti-rebel bullshit, appealing to Underlings to stop us, claiming we are only making it worse for them. I want to know if they're a product of Arcadia or just scared citizens avoiding violence. That's all, just information."
"Yes, sir." Drexel answered. "Can I ask you something, before I go?" he added, mustering his courage while he still had a drop of it. Damien nodded.
"The Monarch...can we be certain he's not working for Arcadia? What if they started this rebellion, just to crush us absolutely? I mean, no one has ever even seen the Monarch..."
"I have," Damien interrupted, clearly annoyed. "The Monarch risks his life daily to give us the supplies and information that we need. He speaks through me because it's too dangerous for him to reveal himself. You will not question him again. Is that understood?" he said, becoming every inch a rebel leader, far older than his twenty-three years.
"Yes, sir," he said again, leaving the office without another word.
Chapter 11
I
Six-months pregnant and at the top of the second highest tower in the palace, Anaka had few options in dealing with Sundry's corpse. Really only one option. She shoved his body off the edge of the tower and watched it tumble silently onto the rocks below. Never had her work been so sloppy, but what else could she have done? Someone would find him there, would know he'd been murdered given the obvious stab wound, and that he'd been dropped from the Sehrli Tower. Only the council and herself possessed keys to the top, which would narrow down the suspects considerably. Sending a wind message to Alaric was now an impossibility – if it were confiscated the council would not only know there was a traitor in Yeraz but that the traitor was a council member.
If luck was on her side, she had two days before the young sorcerers arrived in Kinjia, but more likely one day. Even if she did manage to warn Alaric he would not have time to prepare. But if she failed to notify him, he would retract his promise of asylum, dooming her unborn daughter to a terrible fate as the next Queen of Dreams. Wrapped in her thoughts she descended the tower, careful not to cross paths with anyone lest her presence be remembered once the body was found. Once away from the tower, Anaka roamed the palace grounds, trying her best to appear aimless and making certain the right people saw her – ones that would back up her alibi if she were called into question, but only because they feared speaking against her.
The afternoon was unusually nice; white puffy clouds parting over pale blue skies, the warm air broken by a slight, refreshing breeze. She paused over the veranda and watched the sea, so smooth and blue compared to its usual gray turmoil. Currently the height of summer in Yeraz, people normally would have wandered lazily through the streets, picking their way over the rocky shores. Now there was a sort of frenzy in the air, an anxiety and panic as tangible as the breeze.
People walked hurriedly, bee-lining toward vendors to stock up on food before the supplies ran out. The council complained of starvation, but currently there remained plenty of food. They were rationing it now in fear of the coming winter, in fear that Dalga would still possess Tibre after this season's harvest. Also, most of the southern provinces had traded regularly with Dalga for food, but now that their empire was officially at war all trade had been suspended, leaving Yeraz with additional provinces to feed.
The Handmaiden was aware of all this, knowing fully that she alone had been the cause. Good. I hope every last one of you starves to death. Every one of you who has sneered behind my back, who has called me Wakati scum. I will be the death of you. I will laugh over your bones. This evil empire can burn to dust and my daughter will finally be safe and the world safe from the Sphere's taint.
I would kill them all if that's what it takes to save you, she thought to her daughter, who might be born into a broken world but she would never be its queen. Anaka would make certain of that.
II
After dinner in the great hall, an
ordeal she normally avoided, though that night she'd wanted to be seen, Anaka found herself alone in her rooms once again. This was her last chance; if she could not warn Alaric tonight everything she'd done would be for nothing. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to focus, easily bringing the south to mind after her practice the previous night. This time it came to her immediately, as if the warm winter night on the other side of the world had been waiting for her. The Handmaiden opened her eyes in Dalga, a pale glow at the edge of the sky warning her of impending dawn. Quickly she raced through the garden, passing the very place where she'd cut Cyril's throat at the bottom of the king's tower.
That night had been the first time since Hakkon's death that she'd felt fear. Killing her fellow soldier and ally was the first real action she'd taken toward the insurrection forming in her mind. Wiping the dagger on Cyril's dark clothes, she'd slid it back into her sleeve, attached hooks to her shoes and climbed Alaric's tower. The tower was tall with few handholds, but Anaka was an expert and the task had been simple. Dalga's king had even left his window open to let in the cool night breeze. She'd slipped inside like a shadow, silently approaching the king's bedside.
The room was round, the floors white marble and the sparse furniture light wood with white cushions. Large, bright flowers were the only color to the room, blooming from hanging pots, floor pots and window boxes. A massive four-poster bed dominated the center, made up with white sheets and blankets, the sheer curtains that hung from the posts fluttering slightly in the breeze. He'd slept soundly as she watched him. His eyelids had twitched in a dream, his long white-blond hair spread like silk over the pillow. Alaric was clearly not southern, with that light hair and pale skin, so how had he become their ruler? He instantly reminded her of Stellan; young, handsome and powerful.
Stiffening her resolve to betray both her lover and her empire, she quickly pressed the dagger's edge to Alaric's throat – hard enough to draw blood, but not enough to really hurt him. His clear blue eyes flew open in surprise, though he did not move. She stared him down in silence, waiting for him to gather his wits.
"King Alaric Eide, I am not here to kill you," she said, though keeping the dagger against his throat. Somehow, she would have to convince him to spare her and to trade her for information. Anaka was a person of very few words, and even now she had no idea what to say, how to convince him. He cleared his throat carefully.
"If you're not an assassin, then who are you?" he demanded, his voice clear and hard with no trace of fear, despite his current position.
"You're mistaken. I am an assassin, Yeraz's best. My queen, the council, the whole army believe I have come here to kill you, but that is not the case," she said, removing the dagger from his neck and taking a single step back, though she kept the weapon in her hand. "I am here to offer you a deal."
"I suppose you have me in a bargaining position," he responded, sitting upright in his bed and somehow managing to look regal.
"You don't seem to be afraid of me. That's a mistake. You could have died five times over by now, had I wished it. Do not underestimate me just because I am a woman and Wakati," she warned him. If this bastard thinks I'm just a slave girl, he'll never take me seriously.
"I wouldn't dream of it, Anaka Vilente, Black Hand of Yeraz and Handmaiden to the Queen of Dreams. Are you surprised your reputation has traveled this far? Now, what can a humble king like me do for you?" Anaka blinked at him. How had he been expecting her? Who else could have known of her plans? Up until the moment she'd actually murdered Cyril, she hadn't even been certain of them herself.
"The whole continent outside of Dalga belongs to Yeraz now," she started. "Surely you must have realized the queen would turn her eyes on you next. They've sent me to kill you, to try the easy way first. After your death, when your country is in turmoil, Yeraz will strike. When I fail to kill you, they will come nonetheless. But if you strike first, deliver them a death blow before the war even begins, then you would have the full advantage," she said. You're my last chance, my only hope. Say yes. And if you don't, I'll spill your entrails all over this shiny white floor. She gripped the dagger harder, refusing to break his gaze.
"And what single blow could I possibly deliver Yeraz that would put them so quickly on the defensive?" he pressed. "If you have not noticed, Yeraz is several times the size of my kingdom."
"If you were to take Tibre they would have no choice but to consent to you. Tibre is Yeraz's only source of food outside of the fishing industry, and of course trade with Dalga, which will be cut off during a war. With fifty-two provinces to feed, Yeraz would be starved out by next winter."
"Such a plan would work, if Tibre were not impenetrable," he countered, but his pale eyes lighted with interest, eager to hear her plan, to take down Yeraz, to gain the world for himself. The lust for power glowed hot on his face, just like every man she'd ever known. This king was no different.
"Not so. There is a way inside known to very few. I will impart that knowledge to you," she said. Yes, take the bait. For the price of my freedom, Yeraz is yours. Power, that's all men care for.
"And what would you like in return?" he asked, eyebrow lifted. He'd be expecting something grand – gold, jewels, a palace, the throne itself perhaps. But what good were jewels when you couldn't live to keep them?
"Asylum for myself, my daughter and my...cousin, along with a written promise that you will never turn us or our location over to the queen or any other official connected to Yeraz." She would get her daughter and Ronan out of Yeraz. No matter what.
"You must be in great danger if you are eager to risk so much for safety." Anaka responded with her customary silence. Take it or leave it, pretty boy.
"Very well, I suppose I don't need to know your reasons," he answered, his cold blue eyes boring into her. "I accept your terms, with conditions. I will grant you and your family safety, but I will require more than Tibre if I deem to annihilate the greatest empire in history. You will tell me how to get in, and then you will return to Yeraz. If your plan works and I acquire Tibre you will have gained my trust and I will send for you."
The deal had seemed better than she'd expected as she'd been prepared for him to hold her in Dalga's dungeons until Tibre had been taken. Now she would return to her men with a lie about a trap, a narrow escape and Cyril's capture – she had chosen Cyril to accompany her for a reason – the council knew that he knew about the tunnels. He had been the one to reveal them in the first place. Once Dalga captured Tibre with those very tunnels, all the blame could easily be shifted to Cyril, who would be believed to have been tortured for information.
"Agreed," she had said, sealing her fate.
III
At the present time Anaka did not possess the fortitude she'd had when she'd climbed the tower four months previous. Instead, she circled around to the door where two guards stood ready with gleaming, unsheathed short swords strapped to their leather belts. The assassin stiffened, ready to strike should the guards mark her as an enemy, forgetting she wasn't really here, but they quickly stepped aside and even held the door for her. Blank face, Anaka. Expect what's been given. Show no emotion. She entered the tower, which was devoid of all except a spiraling staircase to the king's quarters. But why would the guards just let me in?
Maybe Alaric had warned them to expect her. And if they had, how many pregnant Wakati women would be wandering through the palace grounds? The Wakati did not believe in technology or castles or governments. Their islands were split into villages led by chieftains and they lived simple lives free of war and quests for power. The ones who sought a better life or the few criminals who's been exiled came to the empire – the civilized world where they were known as savages and barbarians, fit only for slave work. Anaka doubted there were many Wakati in Yeraz who were not slaves or servants, and she doubted Dalga would be much different.
The gilded door at the top of the steps swung open silently the moment she reached it, panting for breath like an untrained civilian. The flowers
had changed due to the season, though were no less vibrant. The rest of the room remained the same since her last visit, save Alaric who was resplendent in white mage robes, standing rigidly on the other side of the door. He grinned a toothy, predator's smile.
"At last, my little spy," he greeted, the door swinging shut magically behind her. He gestured for her to sit and she did, sinking deeply into the soft white cushion. The king sat himself opposite her, those icy blue eyes seeming to pierce her very soul. "You dare to steal magic from the Ilahi's child, and to betray him no less? Brave, reckless. He'll kill you." Anaka narrowed her eyes at him. Warning me against helping you? Almost as if you no longer need me.
Anaka required no lesson on the dangers of crossing Stellan, though she struggled to hide her surprise that he'd recognized the magic. Not even Stellan had. Unless he'd been lying to her...though he'd lost his magic so perhaps not. Whatever the case, Alaric was dangerous – more so than she'd originally guessed. Her dagger to his throat would be no real threat for a mage like him. He'd probably been laughing at her.
"The Ilahi has sent two-hundred-fifty magic students to Kinjia, to reclaim the city and break through the Bronze Gates, opening a way for Yeraz's army. They will arrive in Kinjia tomorrow, to meet up with the army and take the city. Once they have Kinjia, they will move on Tibre. I am sorry I did not warn you earlier, but I only just found out," she added, hoping Alaric was prone to leniency, a trait she herself neither possessed nor asked for, until now.
"I see," he paused and stared down at his hands for at least a minute before continuing, either to make her nervous or he was simply thinking. Anaka believed the latter. "I have an elite force inside Tibre, insurance in case Yeraz tried anything. I can have them in Kinjia before dawn. But if you're lying to me, I'll be leaving Tibre defenseless. Are you lying to me, Anaka?"