War of the Bastards

by Andrew Shvarts

  I knew that I should keep my distance, that talking to him would only make things more complicated. I was a rebel, and he was a tyrant, and that was how I needed to think. But after four days on the road, my resolve broke. That night, as we sheltered in an abandoned barn, I took a shift on watch and walked over to him when everyone was asleep. He rested against a mossy wooden beam, eyes shut, and I kicked him gently in the side of the leg. “Hey,” I whispered. “Father. Wake up.”

  With a grunt, he shifted over and opened his eyes. The roof of the barn had mostly collapsed overhead, giving way to a clear night sky full of radiant stars, and in that bright moonlight I could see his face up close. By the Old Kings, the last two years had aged him. Heavy bags hung under his eyes, and deep wrinkles creased his forehead. His beard was more gray than brown, and his gaunt features looked sunken, haunted.

  We stared at each other in silence. “Well?” I said at last. “Are you going to say anything?”

  “Like what?”

  Okay, this was going to be one of the angry moments after all. “Like…sorry? Sorry for getting my brother killed? Sorry for murdering my friend? Sorry for starting a war that destroyed the Kingdom? Sorry for ruining my fucking life?” The last one, I almost yelled, and nearby Galen shifted in his sleep. I took a breath and lowered my voice. “How about, sorry for being the worst father ever? Let’s start with that.”

  His pinched lips didn’t betray even the slightest hint of emotion. “I already told you what I had to say, way back in the Nest.” That felt a lifetime ago, all the way back in our journey to escape the West. “I should have trusted you from the beginning. I should have brought you into my plan. It should have been you, not Miles, by my side.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about!” I said. “I don’t care that you didn’t loop me into your stupid plan. I care that you did this. All of this. That you started this war. That you killed all those people. There were children in that ballroom, Father. Children.” It was taking all my effort not to cry. “And I swear by the Old Kings, if you say anything about all wars having casualties, I’ll punch you in the face myself.”

  My father didn’t say that. But his eyebrow arched, just a tiny bit. “‘By the Old Kings’?” he repeated. “Not ‘by the Titans’?”

  “That’s what you’re hung up on?”

  “Yes. Because it tells me who you are,” he said. “You may have thrown in your lot with the Volaris. You may have betrayed your family and your Province. But in your heart, you’re still a Westerner. And you always will be.”

  “Can you stop? Please? For just one moment?” I pleaded. “I don’t want to talk about Westerners or Volaris or hear another big speech about freedom and tyranny and all your bullshit. I just want to talk about people. About Markiska and Jax. About me. You’ve hurt so many people.”

  “And you haven’t?” he asked. “How many men have you killed, Tillandra? How many sons of the West, how many boys just fighting for their land, their King?”

  Twenty-nine.

  “That’s different,” I said. “I did that because I had to. And I would’ve given anything to choose a different way. Every time I close my eyes, I see their faces and feel horrible.” The tears were getting harder and harder to hold back, but I gave it my all. “Don’t you feel any regret? Any remorse? Don’t you feel anything?”

  He paused for a long time, saying nothing, just breathing deep, and when he spoke at last, his voice was terse, guarded. “When I was seven years old, a group of soldiers woke me from my bed and dragged me down to Castle Waverly’s Great Hall. The Archmagus was there, Rolan’s father, along with a company of Knights of Lazan, and they made our whole family gather to bear witness. My grandfather, High Lord Tobias Kent, was accused of treason, of spreading seditious talk and conspiring against the crown. I don’t know if he was guilty or not. Knowing him, probably. But I was seven at the time. I didn’t understand any of it. I just knew that they had my grandfather on his knees, the sweet old man who took me fishing and taught me knots, who called me ‘Little El’ and told me stories of the Old Kings. And they made me watch. They made me watch as they pronounced the sentence. They made me watch as my father begged, as my mother sobbed. They made me watch as they burned him alive from the inside.”

  My knees were trembling. “I thought he died of an illness….”

  “The Volaris didn’t want to turn the High Lord into a martyr, so that’s the story they made us tell. His death, his torture, that was a lesson for the Kents alone. For me.” His eyes were hard slits, his hands clenched tight. It was like every word of this was a dagger he was forcing out of himself, like every sentence caused him pain. Had he told anyone about this? Or had he just kept it inside, all his life, a raw wound still bleeding behind a dozen layers of armor? “Whatever you’re looking for, Tillandra, whatever ember of remorse or compassion, you’re not going to find it. The Volaris took it from me that day. They made me who I am.” He closed his eyes. “Everything I’ve done, every action I’ve taken, every person I’ve hurt, has been in service of our people. I fought and killed for a better world. And I will not apologize for that.”

  I stepped back, in part because I could see the others stirring but mostly because I just had to get away. “Eighteen years, I’ve dreamed of getting to know the real you. Of meeting the man behind the facade, of talking to you just as a daughter to a father. But the man doesn’t exist, does he? This is you. This is all there is.”

  I turned away and walked across the barn, to fresh air, to anywhere else. But as I reached the threshold, I heard him sit up and say one more thing.

  “Not eighteen.”

  I stopped. “What?”

  “You’re not eighteen yet,” he said. “Your birthday’s next month.”

  I shoved my way outside, into the sprawl of wild wheat just outside the barn. The world throbbed around me, and my lungs felt tight, crushing in, that horrible overwhelming sensation of just feeling too much. I stumbled away from the barn as far as I could, and then I collapsed to the ground and sat there, hands wrapped around my knees, letting it all out, the tears, the sobs, the heaving waves and shudders.

  The stalks in front of me rustled and parted, giving way to the one person I’d want to see. Zell. His jet-black hair shone silver in the moonlight, as did the nightglass blades on his knuckles. He was wearing just a cloth shirt, pants, and riding boots, while the rest of us were bundled up under furs and cloaks. That was one thing about Zell. He never got cold.

  He took a seat next to me and wrapped an arm around my shoulder, and I leaned into his warmth. “Hey,” he said.

  I sniffled. “Did you hear all that back there?”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t know what I expected. But it wasn’t that.” I squeezed Zell close. It was like he always had a little fire burning inside him, just radiating out through his skin. “How does he still have this much power over me? Why can’t I just hate him?”

  “Hate comes from ignorance,” Zell said. “And you know him too well to hate him.”

  “Everything he’s built has fallen down around him. He’s a fugitive in his own Kingdom. And he knows it, he knows he created this nightmare, he knows it’s all on him…and still, he just holds on to these convictions.” I sighed deep. “But I guess so do I. Even now, I keep hoping he’ll change. I keep hoping he’ll listen. Why do I do this to myself?”

  “Because he’s your father.” Zell’s calloused palm gently rubbed my arm. “My father tried to kill me with his own hands. He betrayed our Clan, betrayed our people, betrayed our family. When I think about what he did, my heart burns with rage. But if he were to appear before me now? If he were to ask for another chance, to extend his hand?” He shook his head. “I’d take it. I’d have to.”

  I appreciated him saying that, even if it wasn’t really a possibility; we’d left his father under a pile of rubble in the Nest, so a reunion wasn’t exactly on the table. “You’re objective. Or at least not as biased as me. Do you think my
father could ever be redeemed?”

  Zell thought this over for a while. “In the lakes near my home, there’s this creature. Similar to what you call eels, but bigger, blue, with scales like snowflakes. We call them rellzars. They’re brutal predators, lean and fast, but more than anything, they’re always moving. They can’t stop. They swim, they hunt, they eat, and then they immediately swim again. Even when they sleep, they keep moving.” A cloud passed in front of the moon, casting us, for just a moment, into darkness. “Your father reminds me of a rellzar, but instead of hunger, he’s driven solely by belief, by certainty. He can’t rest, can’t stop, can’t question for even one moment. Because if he does, if he allows himself even a second of doubt, then everything he’s done will come to drown him.”

  “That’s a no, then,” I started to say, but never got to finish because an earthquake hit. This one was small, just a soft rumbling beneath us, but it made all the wheat stalks sway and rustle. I clutched Zell tight and felt the earth buckle and groan.

  When it had settled, Zell spoke. “The shamans teach that earthquakes are a sign that the Gods are displeased. When one happens, it is customary to take the next day to reflect on your actions, to consider ways in which you can improve yourself. We call it Vask Denaro. The Calm After the Quake.”

  “So what does it mean when we have a quake every week?”

  He pulled me in tight and held me there, even as the stalks kept swaying. “Perhaps we all have a great deal of changing to do.”

  WE GOT BACK TO THE Unbroken camp a week later, the horns of the watchmen bellowing with even more excitement than usual as we approached. That should’ve been the first sign that something was up. As we cleared the tree line, the whole camp seemed to be out to greet us, all the soldiers and followers gathered around at the gates, pushing over each other to get a look. There was something off about their expressions though, something troubling. They looked happy to see us, but also alarmed and confused, maybe even wary. Ellarion was the first to break the line. He rushed out of the gate toward us, meeting us before we could even dismount. “Oh, thank the Titans,” he said, clutching Lyriana’s hand, tears glistening in his crimson eyes. “When we got that letter, I just thought…I mean, I assumed…But now you’re…” His words were a messy stammer, his voice choked. “How did you…I mean what…” His voice trailed off as he laid eyes on the last horse in our procession, on my father. “Oh. Oh.”

  “Quite a lot has happened,” Lyriana said, and I could tell even she was a little caught off guard by the display. Other people had spotted our prisoner, and I could hear a sound running through the crowd, somewhere between a murmur and a growl. I tightened my grip on the reins nervously, digging my fingernails into the leather. Every last person in the camp had lost someone to my father’s reign; some of them had lost everyone. And here we were, bringing him back, like a pig for the slaughter.

  Galen, alone, seemed focused. “What letter? What are you talking about?”

  Ellarion gulped, collected himself, and wiped his eyes with the back of a wrist. “I think you should probably just see it for yourself.”

  The crowd pushed forward, clamoring for a look as we tied up our horses and walked through the camp. These were hardened Unbroken, soldiers and refugees, but pressed together now, they looked more like an unruly mob. It reminded me of that night back in Lightspire, the Festival of Tears, where the lovely gathering had turned to a bloody riot in the blink of an eye. I tried to imagine how I’d feel if I was one of them, if I could see him as just the man who’d destroyed the kingdom, and not the father who’d raised me. I guess it’d be sort of how I felt about Miles, which didn’t bode well for him.

  Kelvin, the scholar, was waiting for us in the command tent, standing behind the sprawling wooden table with a stunned look on his face. We all marched in, and Ellarion pulled the tent’s flap shut while Galen shoved my father down on his knees on the floor. “Well?” Galen said. “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on here?”

  Kelvin stared at us with his jaw hanging open, and Ellarion gently nudged him. “Read them the letter.”

  “Right. Yes. Of course.” Kelvin fumbled on the table for a moment before finding a curled scroll. In the wan candlelight I could see a sigil on the back, an open watchful eye, the sign of the Inquisitor. “Five days ago, there was a flurry of Whispers from the Dragonsmaw, flying to Lords all over the Kingdom. We shot one down and…” He cleared his throat and began to read. “‘It is with a heavy heart that I inform you of the passing of our King, the Great Liberator Elric Kent. While visiting Lord Delaux to plan a course for victory against the Southland Secession, he was ambushed by a group of cowardly traitors, and was mortally injured. As his children are too young to assume the throne, I, Inquisitor Miles Hampstedt, will act as Regent, and assume all the duties of the King until his heirs come of age. Rest assured, these treasonous assassins will face justice for their heinous act. As Regent, I will not rest until every last member of the Unbroken has been put to the sword.’” Kelvin paused, skimming the scroll. “Then there’s a lot of proclamations. A week of mourning…renewed conscription of able-bodied men…mass executions…oh, and this.” His eyes flitted down, to my father on his knees. “‘We believe the assassins were able to breach the King’s security through the cunning use of Mesmers, and they plan to use his likeness to target other loyal Lords. Do not be fooled by this ruse. Anyone bearing the visage of our departed King is a traitor, and should be killed on sight, alongside all of their companions.’” He hesitated for a moment, like he was saving the worst for last. “‘Anyone who provides information as to the location of a Mesmer wearing Kent’s face shall be rewarded with a manor in Lightspire, fifty thousand in gold, and the title of Lord.’”

  The room was as silent as a crypt. “Sneaky little shit,” my father growled at last.

  “He learned from the best,” Lyriana replied, harsher than I’d ever heard. I remembered the letter we’d read all the way back on the Western shore, the one that had blamed us for Rolan’s murder and put a bounty on our heads.

  “It was a lie, then,” Kelvin said, and you know, for a scholar, he seemed a little slow on the uptake. “Misdirection. A ploy.”

  “That’s putting it lightly.” Galen let out a low, bitter laugh. “So much for parading Kent in front of the other Lords or using him to denounce Hampstedt. So much for getting any use out of him at all.” He knocked my father over with a kick, sending him tumbling to the tent floor. “All that trouble we went through to save you. And Miles just had you killed anyway.”

  My gut plunged. I hated Miles, hated that devious mind of his, hated his way of always ending up one step ahead. “Will people believe this?” I asked.

  “Of course they will. Why wouldn’t they?” Galen shook his head. “The second we take Kent out anywhere someone can see him, we’ll end up riddled with arrows. And it’s only a matter of time before someone in our camp gets tempted by that reward and decides it’s a safer bet to turn on us.”

  “So what do we do?” I asked.

  “Only one thing we really can do.” Galen drew one of his daggers, its blade gleaming. “We execute him.”

  “Whoa,” I said, before I could think twice about it. “Hang on. Just like that?”

  Galen’s head swiveled slowly toward me. “We kept him alive because he was useful. He’s not useful anymore.”

  “Galen’s right,” Ellarion said, eyes burning with hate. Technically, he’d only found out about my father, like, ten minutes ago, so I’m not sure he was in a position to talk. But also, my father was directly responsible for what happened to his hands, so I guess he had the right to be a little emotional. “Every moment he’s alive, we risk someone getting tempted by Miles’s bounty. We should kill him here and now.”

  “I…I just mean…” I tried, but my brain couldn’t find the words to justify what my heart was screaming. I knew intellectually that sparing him was indefensible. I knew that there was no world where I could make that c
ase. I knew, deep inside, that what I was feeling was driven by the fact that after everything else, after everything that he’d done, he was still my father, still the man who’d chased me giggling around the castle courtyard, who’d hugged me when I came running with a skinned knee, who’d taken me on those long rides through the Western forests and told me all the great history of our family line. He was still my father, despite it all.

  “Tillandra,” my father said quietly. His eyes were shut, his teeth gritted, the dagger’s point still pressed to his forehead. When he spoke, his voice had no emotion, just the flat distant cadence of resignation. “Walk away. You don’t need to see this.”

  But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Even if it made my eyes burn and my knees tremble, I couldn’t just turn away. I had to see it through. “No,” I said, and my father just nodded. Galen drew back his blade.

  “Wait!” Lyriana said, and the whole room froze. “No. Not like this. We must have a trial.”

  Galen swiveled his head toward her with weary irritation. “What now?”

  “We still live by the laws of the Kingdom. That’s important. Now more than ever.” And even though Lyriana was stopping Galen, her voice was cold and hard. This wasn’t about saving my father. This was about making sure the justice was hers. “If he is to die by the Queen’s justice, I must pass a sentence. And I won’t do that without a trial.”