“Watch out!” Roen shouted at the top of his lungs.
The green eyes caught his own, and Roen saw them fill with fear. The woman spun around and stood frozen before the Stonesons at the entrance. She never even noticed Lale draw his dagger behind her. The prince’s blade wiped across her throat in one quick, clean movement, as if it were a handkerchief wiping away her sweat. It was a cut so clean she couldn’t have felt it, even noticed it until it began to drip.
Something inside Roen seemed to crumble. He had never known such grief, grief that burned, blinding him. If his mother’s death had burdened his heart, this blow shattered it. He wanted to die.
The beautiful woman stood dazed, and Lale caught her as she fell. He lifted her in his arms, like a man holding his new bride, and carried her toward the balustrade. He tossed her over.
Roen rushed forward to catch her.
She landed in his arms, almost weightless. Her neck gaped open like a second, wide mouth.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Lale called from above. “Let go of that trollop!”
Horror pounded through him, but Roen shook his head. He wasn’t going to let Lale behead this woman, stick her head on a spike and let it rot. She deserved the proper burial his mother had been denied. Holding her in his arms, Roen turned and began to run.
The crowd parted to let him pass. The Stonish guards had left the courtyard to help their prince, and Roen burst unhindered into the snowy gardens. He ran as if on air, his feet flying. Wind billowed his hair and pinched his nose.
He reached the gardens’ end and entered the city. He ran alone through the deserted streets, kicking up fresh snow. The sun was low now, and fireflies flitted away from his feet. No one was following him, so great was his head start.
He reached his workshop and rushed inside. Smerdin rose to his feet.
“I’ll explain later,” Roen said. “Help me clear the table.”
Smerdin wiped his arm across the tabletop, pushing off paints, parchment, brushes, and Roen’s rusty sword. They clanged against the floor. Roen laid the woman on the table. He took a handkerchief from a drawer and laid it atop her wound. The white cloth turned red immediately. The cut had ripped clear through her throat.
Roen held the girl’s wrist. There was no pulse. She was dead, beyond the healing power of magic. A lump swelled in Roen’s throat, curving his mouth bitterly. He touched her hair, her cheek, her lips. She was growing cold already. Hot tears streamed down Roen’s cheeks. All the grief from the past moons—the grief of the war, the siege, his mother’s death—it all came out now. Roen pulled the woman to him and held her, weeping. A feeling of helplessness washed over him, an unbearable sadness that such loveliness could perish, that the only two women he had ever cared for were gone.
“Why did you have to die?” he said, holding the girl tight. “I wish you could live, I wish you could live, I wish you could live, live, live.”
And with a long, shuddering breath, she did.
Roen leaned back, unable to breathe in amazement. The woman’s chest was rising and falling in deep rhythm. Her eyes were still shut. She was sleeping. Her lips were curved into a soft smile. Roen pulled away the handkerchief on her neck. Her skin was smooth and unscathed. She was unwounded. She was alive.
Languid clapping came from behind.
Roen and Smerdin spun around to see Prince Lale standing in the doorway, smiling, surrounded by guards.
The fresh snow, Roen realized with cold dread. In his mad flight he had forgotten the fresh snow.
“What a pleasant surprise,” Lale said. “The Healer Firechild.”
Roen whispered, “I’m not the Healer Firechild.”
“Tell that to my father,” Lale said.
“What do you mean?”
“You, like the Forestfellow, are to be given to Sinther as a gift. A pair of pet Firechildren will spruce up that bleak cavern of his.”
Roen averted his eyes. There, peeking from the shadows beneath the table, was the hilt of his sword. Roen took a slow, shaky breath. Then he dived down and grabbed the hilt. He drew the sword a second before the prince’s guards could draw theirs. He pointed the tip at Lale’s throat.
“Drop your swords!” Roen shouted.
For a moment there was silence. Then Lale began to laugh. His head tossed back, and his chest heaved, and he laughed so hard he could not speak. Roen tightened his grip on the hilt, grimacing with fear and anger and humiliation.
“I’ll kill you!” he warned.
Lale quelled his laughter with obvious effort, wiping a tear from his eye. He turned his head and spoke to his guards. “Men, if this boy kills me, grab his father and torture him to death. I want it to take at least a week. Then, do the same to the girl. Finally, do the same to the boy.” He turned to look Roen in the eyes. “Well, go on. Or have you thought better of the matter?”
Roen slowly lowered his sword.
“Grab him,” commanded Lale, his voice now cold and without a trace of amusement.
Two Stonesons stepped forward and grabbed Roen. They bent his arms behind his back.
To the other guards, Lale said, “Grab the father. I want him tortured to death.”
“But you said—” Roen cried before the guards slammed their palms over his mouth, stifling his words.
Lale paced toward him slowly, staring with iron eyes. He spoke with a cold voice.
“No one threatens me.”
He pulled back a gloved fist and drove it forward. Pain exploded, and everything turned black.
Chapter Seventeen
Scorched Earth
Aeolia sat on a bench under a willow, the tree’s naked branches weeping icicles like frozen tears. The sky was slowly clearing, revealing a small, twinkling sun. The snow had stopped falling during the night and now lay smooth over the gardens, speckled with thickets of yellow, cloying jasmines. Aeolia wore a cotehardie of the same color, its wool simple and unadorned. She caressed her wedding ring, a thin band of gold. She could see her reflection in it, almond hair collected into a practical bun, honey eyes sad. Her cheeks were flushed pink, but from cold rather than rouge. She wore no makeup today. Today her dream ended. Her stomach knotted at the thought and she shivered.
A mirthless smile found her lips. For so many years as a slave she had dreamed of returning to Stonemark, the land she had once thought her home. Now she feared it. She told herself her fear was unfounded. Her plan was perfect. It could not fail. She went over it one last time in her mind: While Lale marched to Brownbury, she’d lead her army to Heland’s coast, catch ships and sail into an unsuspecting Grayrock. There she’d enter Sinther’s pit and shackle him. He won’t be able to harm me, Aeolia told herself. I need not fear. And Talin is coming with me.
She smiled again, but this smile was warm. The thought of Talin was so sweet. Since their marriage a fortnight ago, they had made love every night, sometimes till dawn, while linked. Aeolia’s days were just as pleasurable, walking in the orchards with her husband, planning their future after the war, what their house would look like, what they’d name their adopted children. Soon all this bad stuff will be over, Aeolia told herself. My plan cannot go wrong. It will not be long, and all my troubles will end. And then Talin and I will have our house, and our five adopted children, and our three dogs and horses, and we will be happy forever.
Feeling reassured, Aeolia rose to her feet, smoothed her clothes, and followed the cobble path to the palace. She climbed the stairs, running her hand along the gilded railing, and stepped through the wooden doors.
Inside the main hall the air was warm and sweet with incense. Crackling braziers tossed dim light onto the huge, golden firefly embedded into the back wall. Beneath the emblem, between two guards, King Reyn sat slumped in his throne. The king’s skeletal hands held his thick samite robe tight around him. His lips were blue as the sapphires round his flabby neck. He looked like a corpse. He stared at Aeolia wearily, his head bent under the weight of his crown.
�
�Where have you been?” he rasped. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“I was out viewing the army, Your Majesty,” Aeolia said. “We have only seven thousand men, a speck beside the Stonish host. But with that Stonish host engaged in Brownbury, and a clear passage through Heland, it’ll be enough. We’re ready to attack, and I....”
Her voice died as she saw Reyn glumly shake his head.
“What’s wrong?” Aeolia asked, a chill flooding her.
The king tugged at his beard. “Best I be straightforward. Brownbury has fallen. Heland has been annexed to Stonemark.”
Aeolia’s blood froze. From hair to toenails, dread tingled through her. Her mouth fell open, but she couldn’t speak. She looked away, grimacing, then looked back up at Reyn, her eyes burning.
“Heland... all of it?” she whispered. “In Sinther’s claws? How can this be?”
“The Stonesons found a kingdom at war with itself. Heland’s three houses were so busy fighting one another, Lale had to but march in.”
“We have no passage through Heland...,” Aeolia said, and then a larger horror dawned upon her. “We are engulfed.”
Reyn nodded glumly. “Sinther has swallowed us whole. We are enisled in their sea, the last kingdom standing, an enclave in a Stonish empire.”
Aeolia lowered her head. She had no plan. The war was far from over. It’s all my fault, she thought. I started Heland’s civil war, and I could have stopped it by letting Hyan hang, but I didn’t. Wherever I go I bring destruction.
“Is there nothing we can do?” she whispered.
“The Stonesons are marching against us as we speak. They are encroaching from all fronts, tightening around us like a noose. We cannot hope to withstand them, let alone attack their capital!” The king sighed. “What we do is surrender.”
Then all is lost, Aeolia thought. There would be no house, no adopted children, no dogs and no horses. All those who had died for her, their deaths had been in vain. She thought of the ogress who had given her her life, and of Taya who had tried to, and of all the strangers who had died in her arms or at her hands.
She spoke quietly. “If I turn myself in, will he spare Esire?”
Reyn shook his head. “If I thought he would, I’d have turned you in myself. No, girl. Lale ravaged the Forest even after he had caught its Firechild. He may want you more than her, but—”
“What did you just say?” Aeolia interrupted, icy fingers gripping her heart.
The king glared at her. “Mind your tongue, girl.”
Aeolia wanted to grab the king’s shoulders and shake. Instead she forced herself to take a deep breath and speak with a mannerly voice. “Your Majesty, may you please repeat what you said about the Forest’s Firechild?”
“I said Lale ravaged the Forest even after he had caught its Firechild, and I said that—”
Aeolia covered her mouth. Tears sprung into her eyes. “He caught her? Spirit, he caught Taya?”
“The news came in yesterday,” said the king. “If you’d have spent less time coupling with your husband or giggling with that handmaid of yours you might have heard. Lale had captured this Taya and sent her to Sinther as a gift.”
Aeolia shook her head, horror swirling through her. “I have to save her,” she whispered. “We must attack Grayrock.”
Reyn sagged in his seat. “You’re letting your personal emotions interfere with logic. Capitulation is the wisest option.”
“I must save Taya!” Aeolia cried. “I must save her—and everyone else. I had promised them as much, and I can’t let them down. I have caused so much trouble, and... perhaps I can still mend some of it. Esire must fight.”
“I’m sorry, girl, but Esire will officially surrender.”
“No!” Aeolia forced back the tears that budded in her eyes. She could not let Esire fall without a fight, not after all these deaths. She took a deep, shaky breath. “Esire is my country now, and it surrenders when I say so.”
Reyn laughed; a sickly, empty sound.
“You may be an important figure in my kingdom,” he said, “but you do not have authoritative power. You know nothing about ruling a country—you did, after all, grow up a slave.”
Aeolia’s eyes became unfocused, and she gazed past the king, at the emblem of the golden firefly. She spoke softly, more to herself than to Reyn, and there was uncertainty in her voice. “And perhaps I am like fireflies, and shine only in the dark.”
She snapped back to reality and turned her gaze to the guards.
“Draw your daggers,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. She could not believe what she was about to do. It seemed her voice spoke on its own. The day’s news had given her this desperate, tragic determination.
The guards shifted uneasily.
“Please draw your daggers,” she whispered.
The guards glanced at Reyn. The old man tightened his lips and nodded. The guards drew their blades and stared at Aeolia, perplexed.
“The people will go hungry because of our war,” she said. “The golden emblem embedded into the wall behind you, I want you to pry loose. Melt it into coins, and toss them off the palace walls for every beggar to fetch.”
Reyn rose to his feet. “That emblem represents the crown of Esire, bound with Esiren magic!”
Aeolia stared at the guards, maintaining a calm facade while her insides quivered. “He says it represents Esiren magic. I am Esiren magic. He says it represents the crown. From hereon I wear that yoke.”
“Ignore her!” Reyn screamed. “Ignore her or I’ll have you hanged!”
“We can surrender,” Aeolia whispered, “or we can win this war. You choose.”
The guards glanced at each other, and Aeolia felt her belly roiling like a storm. She could not believe herself; was she truly defying the king—usurping him? It seemed impossible, yet here it was happening around her. Finally the guards sighed, turned, and began working at the emblem. Aeolia breathed out with relief.
Reyn jerked his head toward her so violently, his crown fell and clattered against the floor. As he leaned down to lift it, Aeolia kicked it away.
The old man straightened in rage, his eyes bulging, his hair gone loose. “You’re willing to sacrifice thousands of lives!” he screamed. “You’re willing to sacrifice Esire for your place in history!”
“The Esiren people have put their trust in me,” she said. “I cannot let them down. You are wrong. Esire will not die. I will lead her to victory.”
She spun around and paced out of the hall. Once outside, she buckled to the floor, shaking, wanting to cry but unable to.
* * * * *
Queen Aeolia’s crown was wrought of silver, and on its crest perched a golden firefly, which she took as her sigil. Word of the new queen spread throughout the Island like wildfire. The Esiren people were quick to hoist their beloved Firechild’s banners, driving their erstwhile, hated king into hiding. The Stonish army, marching toward the enclave kingdom, swore to crush it and its new sovereign. The Island watched absorbedly as the stone tyrant and the young queen braced for battle.
Wearing a lilac gown and a necklace of amethysts, her dainty crown atop her head, Aeolia sat on her throne beneath a hole in the wall.
“I’m coming with you,” Talin said.
“No, Talin,” she said softly. “Stay here, in safety.”
Talin crossed his arms. “You don’t have enough guards, Your Majesty, to keep me away.”
“That is why I must ask you to stay.”
“I refuse!”
“Talin, the people cannot see a foreigner... do what we will do. It must be done only by Esirens.”
Talin’s face became mulish. “They won’t know I’m a foreigner. I’ll keep my visor down.”
“In a tumult,” Aeolia said mildly, “Esirens link to one another instead of speaking. Enough a peasant link to you, to plead for mercy, and he will know.”
Talin lowered his head. “Then how am I to help?” he demanded.
“Stay here and pr
ay for me. Let me know you are safe and awaiting my return. That thought will comfort me.”
“I cannot believe you are riding to war while I stay behind.”
“This is not war, Talin.” Aeolia sighed. “This is something worse.”
She rose to her feet. “Guards, leave us please.”
The guards bowed and backed out of the hall, leaving the newlyweds alone. Aeolia approached her consort, her gown fluttering over the floor. She embraced him and laid her head on his shoulder.
“Do you remember when we first met?” she said. “Just as I had freed myself, you tumbled a new heap of stones over me.”
“Thank the Spirit I had,” Talin said. “Otherwise you might have escaped me forever.”
“And I remember when I first realized I love you. In the Forest. I had woken up frightened and you were there beside me.”
“I too remember the first time I realized I love you. Just as you had freed yourself, I tumbled a new heap of stones over you.”
Aeolia laughed softly. She ran her fingers through his auburn hair. “Dearest Talin. My life might have been unfortunate if not for you. You taught me what joy is.”
She kissed him for a long time.
Finally she reluctantly detached from his embrace. “Goodbye, Talin,” she said. “I pray to see you again soon.”
As she left the hall, she had the feeling that “soon” might be a very long time. Or perhaps an eternity.
* * * * *
Aeolia sat on Acorn, her new armor sparkling in the winter sun. Its engrailed plates fit snugly over silvery chain mail, and her small crown rested in her hair. Firefang, the sword she had found in Greenhill, hung at her waist, while a quiver of torches dangled from Acorn’s saddle. Behind her sat Ketya on her pony, carrying the new queen’s banner—a golden firefly emblazoned over a deep blue sky. The two girls faced their army of two thousand handpicked Esiren horsemen, all clad in shining armor and flapping golden mantles.
“We will win this war!” Aeolia cried for them to hear. “But we will win it by losing. Show me your torches.”
A sea of hands rose from the Esiren army, holding thousands of torches.
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