Fahren is muttering to himself and runs a hand through his hair. “Why do you even need to know anyth—Scarlet?”
My feet move before my mind can realize what I am even doing. I take off after Blaze, jogging out of the armory and into the practice yard. “Blaze!” I cry without censor, staring at the back of his head. His hair is black and looks as though he tried cutting it himself, chunks of it dangling at uneven lengths. A few pieces reach down enough to scrape his thick neck where a vein slithers from one ear to the center of the back.
The few soldiers in the nearby field pause and glance over at me, murmuring to themselves. There is a somberness to the air today. Sage was not the only one killed in that battle. Out of a few hundreds of soldiers, only a handful of them returned. Many are grieving today. Many are watching me now, the rampage of a fallen sister. I do not care for them. I do not care for any of them.
Blaze stops but does not turn his head. I come up just behind him, breathing softly, fixing my eyes with resolved intent upon him. “What do you want?” His voice is a bark, short and clipped.
I jump but narrow my eyes. “Train me.” I am struggling to catch my breath, not because the jog to catch up was anything difficult but because my heart is hammering so hard in my chest that I can hear it in my ears.
“What?” He whirls on me, looking at me like I had spit in his food and he was ready to grab me by the throat.
“Train. Me.” I clench my fists and narrow my eyes. “In the sword. In combat. I’m going to become a Knight Protector. I’m going to avenge my brother.”
He turns fully towards me now. Tall, broad, terrifying. His skin is tanned leather, cracked and worn in places, covered in pink and white scars, one long strip across his face, gouging his eye. “You’re an archer. Women can’t join the offensive ranks.”
“Then I’ll go alone,” I snarl, standing my ground.
His frown deepens, and fresh lines appear on his face. He is glaring at me now. “Your father is going to kill you.”
“I can handle him.” An over-protective father is the least of my worries.
He raises a brow, and his face sinks into a deeper scowl as if he could kill me on the spot with his orange eye. “Your father is going to kill me.”
I scoff. “Not my problem.”
For a long while, we do not speak, and that orange eye moves back and forth over my face, demanding… something, and then he turns and begins walking away. “Go and grieve, Scarlet. There is no place for you on the battlefield. That is a place for the dead who have not yet died.”
“I would rather die!” I scream at him, clenching my hands until my nails bite into my flesh. The wind flings honey and copper hair into my face, shielding half of it, hot and heavy against my skin in the humid day. I do not bother moving it away. The bite in my palm has now begun to draw blood. “I have nothing left, Blaze! My mother! My husband! And now Sage! I have nothing left!” I am shrieking, my voice reaching a painful pitch and ripping through the air.
My legs can no longer hold the weight of my burden, and I crash onto my knees. My head drops, limp and heavy, golden eyes glaring into the blurry vision of dirt beneath me. My hands have caught me, and my nails dig into the earth, my whole body shaking, rooted into the ground. My vision is spinning and my head feels hot with a rage foreign to me. It is not like fire. Fire is warm and life-giving. This is painful and sharp and poisonous, and it is devouring me.
“You have your life.” Blaze takes a step, I can hear his boot crunch into the hard, clay ground. He is right in front of me. I can see his leather boot just past my hand.
Trembling, I shake my head, using all of my will and effort to do so. “I give it freely. I have nothing to live for.” My first sob chokes me, the first sob since my brother’s death. It struggles in my chest and rattles in my throat, fighting for dominance with my need for air, and it finally erupts from my mouth with a gasp. “All I have to live for now…is that his death will not be in vain. I will slay his murderer.”
“We are all murderers,” he growls, tipping his head and looking down at me with contempt. “We have all taken a life and we will all give our own. The line between murderer and soldier isn’t so black and white on the field, Scarlet. It’s blurred, and when it blurs too much, you can never come back to a normal life. Ever.” He spits on the ground beside me. “You are a dancer, Scarlet. You were made for life.” He crouches down in front of me and grabs my jaw, yanking my head up until my neck feels like it is going to snap. I meet his gaze with my own. “Why me? Why not Jacob?”
I look back at him with hollow eyes. “Because you do not care if I live or die. You won’t hold back.”
His orange eye jumps back and forth between my two. Then, he smirks. “Damn right I won’t.” He stands. “If you whine, I’ll kill you. If you’re weak, I’ll kill you. If you miss a single moment of practice, I. Will. Kill. You. If you cannot survive the test to become a Knight Protector, it will kill you. And if, Scarlet, by some damn miracle, you don’t die before you even reach the battlefield—you’ll have your revenge. No one will stop you.”
He turns and starts walking again, boots thudding in the dirt, and I blink up at the garish day until I realize that the impossible has happened, that I am not dreaming only to awake to the misery left to me. He has accepted my demand. No longer will I weep. I can do more than wait for time to pass, more than wait for the war to end itself. I am going to end it. I am going to kill them all.
I scramble up out of the dust and bolt after him.
Nine Years Later
Chapter Four
Gabriel
“Prince Gabriel,” a councilor greets me, and I turn and give a tight smile, preparing myself for the onslaught of his verbose purpose.
I cannot think of a less important way to spend my time than listening to this bunch of old fools growl and bark like mad dogs. I have better things to do than peaceably quiet their petty fears and nonsensical concerns. Each wants more than the other. Each thinks they deserve more than everyone else. How many sons and fathers and brothers have they given to this war? Few. One of the privileges of being a councilor is the pardon from military service which extends to the immediate family as well. Only a select few have given their family to preserve this country. As far as I am concerned, they do not have anything worth complaining over. Let those who have lost husbands and sons and fathers decide what is the best course of action. Let those who barely have money for meals and who have children dying from illness decide what is needed. These fools who have suffered nothing—what could they know?
But still…I glance to my father. The meeting adjourned a half hour ago, but many councilors are seeking private audiences with my father and I. Kale has come as well, although he is really more of an advisor at this point. Still, as the king’s son-in-law, many think to sway him to their cause. We both know that it wouldn’t matter if they succeeded or not. No one can convince my father for or against anything he does not wish. Perhaps they are hoping that Petara will become queen instead of our brother becoming king. True, our country is mostly a matriarchal society, but the monarchy has, by tradition, been male for many generations now—since the war began again. I would most likely be named heir before Petara, and thus Kale is behind two other males in line of becoming king.
My father is currently in hot debate with a senior councilman who has been in service since my grandfather’s day. And when I say heated, I mean that neither of them have so much as raised their voices but are in a current battle of glares and severely rigid body language. My father is standing ramrod straight and frowning down his nose at the older, shriveled man who is pointing a finger and nearly glaring. Such open conflict is unheard of amongst my kind, but I doubt it would be wise to tell my father so.
“…and so you see, Prince Gabriel. The Brooke sector simply cannot afford to…” Out of the corner of my eye, I spy my future brother-in-law. He is standing at the doors that have been opened since the meeting’s close, and he lowers his ch
in a bit, eyes locked on me. His hands are clasped behind his back purposefully. I know by the way his shoulders are squared and his jaw is set that there is something of great import that disturbs him so. He is not here for a casual chat; he is here as my leading general. Claque.
I look back to the councilor and offer my most winning smile. “You must forgive me, sir. There are urgent military matters to which I must attend. Your concerns for Brooke are completely valid and understandable. I will draw up some propositions for you to look over and have them delivered by the close of two days if that is acceptable?”
The councilor who had not even really hoped that I would be swayed in the least, I am sure, is more than willing to forgive my abrupt and rather rude departure for the opportunity to have my political attention. “Of course, your highness,” he says and bows with the respect he struggled to show a moment ago.
My tight smile remains. “Thank you, your honor. Please, excuse me.” I give my own small, proper bow and move past him to my general. Claque hasn’t slept in nights. I can tell by the way his hair hangs in haphazard arrangement about his face and how his pale complexion shows hints of a pink flush, a sign of malnourishment among our kind. Dena must be in a fit over him. My face is straight but my eyes curious as a few heavy strides bring me to the doorway, and I stand before him.
He does not answer my concern and says shortly, “A word, my prince?”
To speak with such formality is not so uncommon for him, but the sharpness of his words alarms me. He is from a very strict family set upon rules and strict observances of order. Rarely has he ever spoken to me so quickly or without a formal greeting and blessing. My stomach drops. I give a short nod and move past him, leaving the chamber and going down the hall to my own study. A heavy, frosted glass door is pushed aside to lead into my study. It is littered in papers arranged in particular piles on the desk, the available chairs, the tea table, all in a very particular arrangement with which only I am familiar. The windows are closed, and I should like to open them except that it will surely result in my papers being scattered to the four winds.
Thinking on my haphazard room, my attention wanders to the room down the hall. My son is playing there, waiting for me as I promised to visit him. I wonder if he is playing with the new soldier and horse I purchased for him. His nursemaid is a sweet girl but quiet. I wonder if she will play with him. Perhaps I should look into finding him a playmate his own age, since I cannot always be there and his mother…It pains me to know that Enté is in the other room. I promised him that I would be done an hour ago and would see him. I have another meeting in less than an hour, and I have not yet read over the notes prepared. I will not be able to visit him.
Claque does not allow me to brood long. “Another battle,” he says, “like the other. No survivors. The bodies were all burned up to ash.”
I frown and growl, rubbing my chin. I need to shave; I can feel the prickle of white hair on my jaw, and the more I rub it, the more I want to scratch it. “I do not understand it.” I sigh, leaning back against my desk and crossing my arms. “These last three. No survivors. No bodies. Nothing. Usually we have regular updates, but they’re intercepting the reporters from the campaign?”
“It appears so, sire,” says he, standing in a formal soldier’s pose by the door: back straight, head high, one hand clasping his wrist and his heels together. “I do not know how they are doing it yet, but I do have more information for you this time.” I raise my eyes to him, hoping that it may be something. “The Knight Protector leading the battalion. Mind you, I have not been able to validate this information, but it is better than what we had.”
Growing tired with impatience, I say, “Well, go on then. What is it?”
He looks me in the eyes with a peculiar expression for a moment, and it looks like confusion. “They call him Scar. A commander dressed in red leather, birthed from the bowels of hell itself.”
Now I understand his confusion. He cannot make sense of the information. “Scar?” I ask, knowing that I had not misheard him but unable to help myself from asking. “I have never heard of such a commander. I am familiar with all of the top-ranking soldiers in their army.”
Claque inclines his head. He is probably much more familiar than I am. “He is newly appointed as far as anyone can tell. There is no record of him at all before these incidents.”
“Could he be a military son appointed to the position?” I ask, running a hand through my long, white hair and swearing in every language I know in my mind, trying to put the pieces together, but I am not even certain if all the pieces are from the same puzzle.
Claque shakes his head. “All of the sons from the Knight Protectors’ families have been killed or they are currently in service themselves; all accounted for. We have no idea where this Scar came from. But he is considered the most vile and ruthless bastard. Even the Inferno are wary of him.”
For a moment, we do not say anything. I lean against my desk, and he stands ramrod straight by the door while I rub my chin and scowl at the marble floors. Finally, I release a breath and lean back my hand against the desk once more, looking up at him. “Find him. Find the Knight Protector Scar and bring back all information. I want to know where the hell this bastard came from.”
Claque inclines his head. “Yes, sire. What priority should I rank this, sir?”
“Top,” I tell him, narrowing my eyes at the cold, glass window. I can see the faint haze of red on the horizon, the border to the wasteland, the faint glow of burning trees in the distance. “Our most dangerous enemy is the one we do not know.”
Part One
Anger is a sort of madness…
-Mahatma Gandhi
Chapter Five
Scarlet
The earth is so still, so silent. Nothing moves, nothing but us. The horses are anxious; they smell blood in the air. The night is black, and the red crescent moon promises war. The wind does not stir, and there are no clouds to shift in the sky. Everything is so purposefully still. Even the animals are mute and lax tonight. Neither phoenix, nor faerie, nor firefox, nor salamander stirs in the woods. All is still and silent, eerily so, as if there is nothing in the world but I and my soldiers. I am comforted only by the flicker of fire on the sides of the trees, whipping and whispering softly, bursts of fire floating from one tree to another, spiraling around the trunk and dancing among the branches. They are moving, always moving, always dancing. But for now, the whole world is still.
My brother’s horse stomps his massive hoof upon the hard ground, drawing up dust. Among the soldiers, there is a quiet murmur, a mournful song bubbling over the earth like a fog rolling through the burning trees. There is a faint chorus of clinking armor and shifting boots. Everyone is standing, alert and ready, but any speech is done in the most quiet of voices, and the words are drowned out in the moan of the fire. My mount snorts and tosses his head, but his mane is carefully knotted and does not move. He is waiting. I am waiting.
They are coming.
Oldest son of King Dante of Crystalice, the pompous heir, Mit’an’av, has lost the favor of his people and his crown. In hopes of winning them back, he joined an over-large company. He rides the border, thinking himself safe from any real harm while trying to assure his uneasy people that he protects them. And why should he fear? This will be the first battle to begin on the border.
On my brother’s mount, I sit up straight, my head affixed on the horizon, just as an eagle watches for her prey. My golden eyes focus narrowly on where my meal shall appear. Unlike my men, dressed in chain mail and armor, I wear no metal. I am clothed in red leather. I need to move. I am smaller and lighter on my feet. Armor would only slow me down. The leather suit is fastened up to my neck, and it fits close to my skin. Nothing to drag. Nothing to catch. I can move with fluid ease. There are purposeful stitches across the arms and thighs, dividing up the suit into many pieces. Should I need to Shift, the seams will come apart without ruining the leather, or worse—refusing to budge and instea
d choking me or causing me undo pain during the very sensitive Shifting. My hair is tied back out of my face into a tight bun. My face is bare, unlike the hidden faces of my men; they are wearing heavy, bronze helmets that shine russet and copper in the firelight. I watch them all. A thousand shimmering heads waiting for the ambush.
“Knight Protector.” Jacob’s voice is scarcely above a whisper, but it carries easily to my ears. He and the squad have returned, and he rides to the head of the army where I am waiting anxiously. I ride before my men. Always. Only a coward would hide in the back or center. My lieutenant colonel pushes through the throng of soldiers while his scouts join the formation. I turn my head, looking to him with a frown. “The company is approaching from the north-northeast. Probably five…six score. Only a mile or two off.”
I give a single nod and answer low, “Go and speak with the captains. Make sure they are aware of their positions and objectives. Spread word among the men. Make certain they are ready. When they break through the snow, we attack.” He inclines his head and turns his horse to give orders to the soldiers. The Crystalice need a mage in order to come into these lands. The fire would kill them otherwise. Although it is grueling and painful, we can move into their lands—an advantage that allowed us to conquer them many years before—but without a mage, entrance into our burning forest is a sure sentence of death. Here, on the border, they do not yet need their mage.
We are waiting in a thin outcropping of burning trees, looking out at the dry, cracked wasteland that is the border between our world and theirs. I can see the outline of white and blue of Crystalice, the snow thinning out to reveal the hard patches of earth for the width of the wasteland. We will see them when they leave the snow. We will take them when they reach the border.
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