War of the Bastards

by Andrew Shvarts

  “I see my honored guests have eaten well!” He beamed, taking a seat at our fire. “You really must have been on the road a long time.”

  “We cannot thank you enough for your generosity,” Lyriana said. “May the Titans bless you and your company.”

  Varyn waved her off. “Vagabonds rely on the kindness of strangers. It’s only fair that we offer the same.”

  “If I may ask, what are you doing out around these parts?” Ellarion said, still chewing a hunk of goat.

  Varyn glanced around, then leaned in. “In truth? We’re hoping to find someone to get us across the Adelphus, so that we can tour around the Heartlands.”

  Ellarion blinked. “That seems awfully dangerous, with the war and all.”

  “Times of war are when vagabonds are most needed,” Varyn replied with a shrug. “We bring light in the darkness, a night of happiness in a season of pain. What we do isn’t just a pleasure. It’s an obligation.” He looked back at his company with a smile. “Heartlander, Southlander, Westerner, Zitochi. Everyone needs joy in their life.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Zell said.

  “Is that your way of sending me a hint?” Varyn shot him a sly grin, then reached into a pack at his side. He drew out a glass bottle full of a pale green liquid, and popped the cork. “It’s your lucky day, my Zitochi friend.”

  He tossed Zell the bottle, and Zell sniffed it suspiciously. “What is it?”

  “The Green Dream,” Varyn said. “There’s a tree that grows in scattered groves throughout the Southlands, nourished by underground streams, a tree that flowers with succulent green berries. Properly fermented, they make the finest liquor in the entire continent.”

  “It smells strange. Sour,” Zell said, still wary, and shot me an uncertain glance. I mean, on the one hand, we were on a journey to save the kingdom, trying to keep up a complicated lie while surrounded by at least a dozen strangers. On the other hand, I really wanted a drink. I looked to Ellarion for guidance, and I could practically see the gears in his head whirring as he tried to decide the best course of action.

  Then Syan reached over, took the bottle from Zell’s hands, and took a long swig. She slumped back in her seat, a grin slowly spreading across her face, and handed it over to Ellarion. “Trust me. You’ll want to drink this.”

  So we drank, one by one, passing the bottle back and forth. I don’t know if I’d call it the best drink I’d ever had (some of those Lightspire wines were hard to top), but it tasted pretty damn good, like lemonade with a kick. I’m guessing it was stronger than it tasted, because after my second drink I felt a warm blossoming glow in my stomach, tingling all the way to my fingertips, and a resounding conviction that what I really needed was more.

  The night got a lot hazier after that.

  I can vaguely remember songs and jokes and music, and the actors of the company performing a rough version of their latest play. I remember the warmth of the drink and the dancing shapes in the fire. I remember glancing back at my father, who was still watching the whole thing in silence, and wanting to talk to him but also wanting to never talk to him again, my thoughts a tangled mess.

  Also I think I maybe puked on a cactus?

  My next, clearest memory came from later in the night, when the sky was totally dark and the canopy of stars sparkled overhead. I was resting by the fire, sobering up against Zell’s chest, with Lyriana and Syan on either side of me. There was music playing, a pair of strumming guitars and a jangling flute, and in the main sprawl of the camp, encircled by the wagons, people were dancing. Most of the company was up on their feet, twirling and clapping and laughing. Varyn was there, feet springing here and there in a wild jig, and the little boy and the acrobat sisters and the actors and…

  Ellarion? Yup, there he was, no doubt, a big drunken grin on his face as he twirled a buxom young Southlander girl in a circle. I sat up, watching him, and it took my tipsy brain a second to realize what was so weird about him. It’s not that he looked different. It’s that he looked like he’d used to, like the old Ellarion, the one who’d flirted with every girl in Lightspire, the one who’d strutted through the city like he owned every inch of it.

  “He looks so happy,” Lyriana said, obviously on the same wavelength. She was wobbling a little, the way she always did when she was drunk, and it was adorable. “I haven’t seen him smile like that in months….”

  “I haven’t seen him flirt like that in months,” I replied.

  “Those are probably related,” Zell said from behind me. His cheeks were flushed red, and his mouth bent in a tiny smile. “Good for him.”

  There was a boisterous shout from the circle, and now Ellarion was dancing with a different girl, an older woman with graying hair, and everyone was clapping and laughing. Behind me, Zell shifted, and I leaned back into him, feeling the softness of his lips as he leaned over to kiss my forehead. “Do you have anyone special waiting for you back home?” I asked Syan. “A boyfriend or a lover or, I don’t know, how do you guys do marriage?”

  “No. No one special,” Syan said, gazing out at the circle where the first girl Ellarion had danced with was smiling at us. “But my people treat marriage differently than you stillanders. All marriages are arranged by the Kindler, a wise woman who matches children up to best combine families for the good of the benn. When a person turns twenty, the Kindler presents them with three options, and they choose the one they like best. It is all very structured.”

  “Oh,” I said. I knew intellectually it’d probably be rude to question her further, but, counterpoint, I was drunk. “But what if you don’t love any of the three of them? Aren’t you just, like, unhappy for the rest of your life?”

  “Love like that has nothing to do with marriage,” Syan explained. “Marriage only determines your home and your line of succession. If you love your spouse, then that is very fortunate. But if you do not, then you find that passion with others, as you see fit.” She paused, considering her words, like she was worried about offending us. “The People of the Storm do not believe in owning a body the way stillanders do. Every Person is a free soul, and should not be bound, not by law, not by force. Marriage determines the home. But the spirit and the body will always be free.”

  I was struggling to follow. “So like…everyone just has lovers?”

  “If that’s how you choose to understand it,” Syan said. “Everyone is different. Some have one companion they spend their time with, like you stillanders. Others, like my mother, prefer…what’s your word? Flungs?”

  “Flings.”

  “Flings,” Syan repeated, then rose to her feet, adjusting her robe as she paced toward the camp’s center. “I like this melody. I think I’ll go dance now.”

  “And I think I need some sleep.” Lyriana yawned big. “Before I embarrass myself any further.”

  Behind me, Zell rose, and extended me a hand. “I think I’ll go for a walk. Would you care to join me?”

  I glanced back to where my father lay on his side, asleep, then took Zell’s hand in mine. I felt the warmth of his skin and the cold chill of his nightglass. “I’d love that.”

  We walked for fifteen minutes, maybe, just far enough to round the edge of a dune, and then collapsed into each other, hungry, desperate, tumbling into the sand. I ripped his shirt off, running my hands along his scarred chest, and he kissed his way all along me, my neck, my collarbone, my arms, my thighs. We hadn’t made love like this in ages, frantic, playful, laughing as we nibbled each other, breathing deep as our bodies burned against the desert’s cool sands.

  Afterward, we lay together, naked, staring up at the wide expanse of stars overhead. The din of the camp was finally dying down, the boisterous music down to a single mellow singer, the voices all quiet. Zell kissed me, again and again, and I held him so close it hurt.

  “This is what I want,” I whispered, tracing my fingertips through the soft hairs on his stomach. “Just this. Forever. I could be happy with that.”

  Zell craned his
head to me, and all I wanted was for him to say the same thing, that he could be happy with this, too. “I love you so much” was all he said.

  “Not too late to run away, you know. We could just stay out here, the two of us, under the stars.”

  “You know I couldn’t do that.”

  I sighed. “I know. But at least we have tonight.”

  He pulled me close. “At least we have tonight.”

  I WOKE UP THE NEXT morning with my head pounding so badly it felt like my brain was trying to force its way out of my eyes. The sun above was viciously bright, and I scrambled up, covering my face, moaning. I’m not going to say it was the worst hangover anyone has ever had. But I’m not not going to say that.

  I’d passed out lying next to Zell, who was still sound asleep on the desert sand. That had seemed like a great idea the night before but now I felt super-exposed. I pulled my clothes on (and threw Zell’s vaguely on top of him, covering up what I could), then staggered my way back toward the camp. I needed water, a pillow, and a dark tent to collapse in. Not necessarily in that order.

  The camp was mostly still when I arrived. Smoke waved over ash pits, filling the air with that crisp morning-after-a-fire smell. Relics of the night before were scattered everywhere: empty bottles, picked-over skewers, Ellarion snoring on a rock. Not far from him were the mats laid out for us, and I could see my father asleep on one, curled onto his side. There was something weird about seeing him like this, something exposed and vulnerable. In that morning light, he looked human, just a regular person.

  One of the tents on the far side of the camp wobbled as the flap opened. Syan crawled out, her robe loosely pulled around her body, her hair messy and uncombed. She pulled herself up to her feet, and through the open flap behind her I could see someone else sleeping in the tent: the Southlander girl from the night before, the one who’d smiled at us, naked and content.

  Well.

  Okay then.

  Syan closed the flap behind her, then made her way through the camp, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. She dug around in her pack until she found a water-skin, then slumped down in the sand and chugged. I flopped down at her side.

  “So…” I said, glancing at the tent she’d come from.

  “So,” she replied and handed me the skin.

  The morning dragged on, hot, bright, and languid. Slowly the camp woke up, as vagabonds gathered to clean and pack for their journey. They brought us a breakfast of bread and honey, which was pretty much all I could handle. Zell came over, still shirtless. Ellarion spent half an hour trying to find his left boot. Lyriana futzed about, helping the vagabonds (even when they politely insisted she not). The Southlander girl emerged from her tent and waved flirtatiously at Syan, who bashfully glanced away.

  A little before noon, we were ready to part ways. The vagabonds had packed up their camp amazingly (it defied all reason how they fit all that stuff into a pair of wagons), and our little band was up and dressed. My hangover had receded to merely painful, so I made my way toward the edge of their wagon train, where Lyriana and Ellarion were saying their good-byes to Varyn Magsend.

  “I cannot possibly thank you enough,” Lyriana said. “Your hospitality…it meant everything.”

  “Nah! It is I who should be thanking you!” Varyn boomed. “There is no greater blessing than the company of new friends. Which is why I’d like to offer you this gift.” He paused, drawing out the moment, because I don’t think he was capable of doing anything without dramatic flair. “Three fine horses, to hasten your journey!”

  “What?” Ellarion said, but there was Pattos, the hired guard, leading a trio of beautiful brown beasts our way, their eyes soft, their noses snuffling. My aching feet cried out in relief at the sight of them. I’ve never wanted a horse more.

  “Oh, no, we couldn’t possibly take these!” Lyriana said, and I almost slugged her.

  “I’m not giving you a choice,” Varyn replied, his voice firm despite his smile. “The desert is vast and cruel, and I could not possibly let you and your companions wander it on foot. If something were to happen, the Titans would curse me forever.”

  I could see Lyriana calculating the rules of etiquette, and saw the exact moment she gave up. “Thank you so much, Varyn. I will always, always, remember this.”

  “And I will always remember you.” Varyn took Lyriana’s hand in his, raised it to his lips, and ever so slightly bowed his head. “Your Majesty.”

  We all froze staring at each other. Was this good? Bad? How long had he known? How had he known? How could he have not known? My eyes flitted from Ellarion to Lyriana, but they looked as stunned as I felt. “I…I don’t know what you mean…” Lyriana stammered, uselessly.

  “The errant word of a loyal subject, nothing more.” Varyn turned away. “May your journey be peaceful and prosperous. And may the sun once more rise to a true Volaris on the throne.”

  Then he was gone, puttering away to bark orders at his companions and load up his wagons.

  “Well,” I said at last. “Pretty glad we didn’t rob them, right?”

  So we set off on horseback, me with Zell, Lyriana with Syan, and Ellarion, hilariously, with my father, riding those majestic Southlands horses across the desert. With the freedom of riding came a little more time in each day, time to settle into a routine. In the mornings, we kept busy around camp, gathering prickleberries or drawing water. Sometimes Zell and I would spar, mostly out of habit; other days, we’d break off to hunt, and I’m proud to say I managed to catch a grand total of seven lizards and one weird hairless thing Lyriana called a sand-hare.

  In the nights, we’d make camp and huddle around a fire, eating whatever meager meal we’d scraped together, and then we’d tell stories. I can’t remember how we’d gotten started doing that, but it became habit quickly enough, a way to kill time in those lonely dunes. Lyriana recited histories of the Volaris, from the great Mage-Queen Morella, who traveled the entirety of the Heartlands healing the sick, to the tyrant Ortego, the King so awful he was murdered by his own sons just to keep the people from rioting. Ellarion told hilarious (and almost certainly exaggerated) stories from his youth, like the time he broke into the High Priest’s house and tried on his robes, or how he had to flee naked from a professor’s house after spending the night with his daughter. Zell went through the parables of the Zitochi, some of which felt staggeringly profound and others I couldn’t figure out for the life of me. Syan told us a bunch of Red Waster stories, which were always about animals: the jackal who swallowed the sun, the beetle who yearned to be a man, the snake who burrowed to the center of the world. When it was my turn to talk, I just reenacted my favorite childhood novels as best as I could from memory: Muriel the wanderer, the twins who loved a mountain, and yes, the Princess of Jakar and her flying carpet.

  Even my father told a story, just once, late at night in the stillness when we’d all finished. He told us a story from the days of the Old Kings, about a young Western fisherman who was captured by K’olali pirates and forced to be their slave. For years, he worked with them, plundering up and down the shore, and earned their respect for his skill with the sword. He became the captain’s favorite slave, given status above most of the other pirates, a cabin of his own, and all the plunder and drink he could ever want. But one day, the pirates sailed back up the coast, to the Westerner’s own village, and demanded he help them raid it. He agreed, all up until the last minute, and then he plunged his sword through the captain’s heart and took the wheel, crashing the ship against the rocks and killing them all.

  Everyone else was listening, gazes rapt, but I just felt cold. “That’s not how you told it to me,” I said.

  My father craned his head my way. “What?”

  “When I was a girl. That’s not how you told me the story,” I repeated. I hadn’t thought of that story in years, had let it slip deep into the cracks of memory, but him telling it had brought it back up with a surge. I must have been five or six, no older, right around
the time he was marrying Lady Yrenwood and getting ready to knock her up with his real heirs. We’d taken one of our rides into those foggy redwood forests of my home, down to a blacksand beach. There, by the mostly buried ruins of an ancient Western castle, we’d sat and looked out at the waters as he’d talked. “You told me the fisherman took control of the ship, that he threw the captain overboard and beat all the pirates in a swordfight. That he landed on the shore and his people welcomed him home and he lived happily ever after. The end.”

  For once, my father looked puzzled. “I told you that?”

  “You did.”

  “Well, that’s not the real ending.” He looked away, green eyes darting to the fire. “The ship crashing on the rocks…that’s how it really ended.”

  “It’s so sad,” Lyriana said, and then suddenly caught herself, like for just a moment she’d forgotten who my father was. “I mean…of course you’d tell a story like that,” she said, and for the first time, it didn’t seem like she really meant it.

  After a few days of riding south, we began to turn our horses east, toward the Adelphus River and its fertile shores. With each mile we crossed, the soothing monotony of the desert began to end, and more and more signs of life began to appear around us. Palm trees began to pop up like signposts on the horizon. Spiky little bushes framed tiny ponds, and little foxes with tiny horns nipped playfully at our horses’ hooves. Irrigation canals cut through the desert like massive serpents, huge stone tunnels funneling water from the Adelphus. We passed well-trod roads, spotted quiet little villages, and steered clear of processions of travelers, their camels laden heavy with goods.

  And then there were the ziggurats. I actually gaped when I saw the first one, a massive building made of carved yellow stone, half-submerged in a dune. It was like the ancient-ruins version of one of those stacked cakes you saw at fancy Lightspire parties, layer atop layer, each smaller than the last, before culminating in a spiral tower at the top. A lot of it had crumbled and the top of the tower was gone, but even from a distance, it was impressive as hell.