by Jesse Teller
Yenna Redfist made a speech.
She was slowly getting pieces of the last year of her people’s life without her. Her father had sent out every warrior he had to look for her, depleting his forces and leaving his people unprotected. Yenna dedicated his men to guarding the Fendis and had asked for nothing in return.
Flak, Yenna’s grandson, organized the boys his age into a search of the entire city. They even infiltrated the castle in the center of town, combed through every room of every building, checking every cranny and gap for any sign of her. He came to her with a single rose and placed it at her table.
He smiled when he spoke, “The Princess of Wolves has come back to us. We were so much less without her.”
Flak had a face that could stop a girl’s heart. A mind and body to shame a god. While she looked at him, she stared into his eyes to try to find a son for the world resting in them. She smiled at him and nodded, felt only emptiness yawning out before her, but thanked him. He kissed her hand, and Jocelyn shook her head when he left.
She knew what man she needed, and Flak Redfist was not the one.
She kept her eyes roving. When Steppen entered the back of the room and shifted into the shadows, she pushed her chair back slowly and stood on it. She stepped onto the banquet table and waited.
Slowly, the women went quiet. They all seemed to be watching her carefully. Then the men grew still, and she held her arms out to the shadow in the corner and smiled.
Every sound stopped, every heart hushed, and Jocelyn pulled to her all of her presence. They stared wide-eyed at her. She spoke, and though her words were barely over a whisper, she knew every soul within could hear. If not with their ears, then in their chests, where truth lie.
“Steppen will come forward,” she said. Her father sputtered, but the crowd parted for him. He stepped forward with his head bowed low and humble. His wolf padding beside him, she let it come. When he stood at the table, looking up at the raised platform where she ate, her face grew serious.
She needed him in the position of power that would bring about the rise she had seen in her brother. She needed Steppen to be leader of the War Pack so the Blesstest could make its way known. She pulled in all of her power and looked at Steppen.
“Steppen is my savior and protector. When others stopped their search, he did not. He is a man of men, and he will rise as the commander of the War Pack,” she said. “It is my great desire. And I beg of you, Steppen, embrace your new title in love.”
He stared at her before smiling and shaking his head.
“I will not fill the ranks of the War Pack at all until my master and commander is embraced as hero and allowed to stand steadfast in his spot. It is Justeant in that position, or I will not be there.”
She frowned. How had that not worked? She had bent her mind to it. She had spread her power out over him, and he had sloughed off her order as if she was nothing. She stared at him as a slight fear bubbled up in her heart. “Then I will ask my father humbly to embrace Justeant as that commander, and beg my mighty king chief to make peace with my hero Steppen and mark him hero of high honor.”
Steppen looked at Oa, and her father nodded. “Hero he is, and hero I will call him. His honor is impeccable and well held. Come to me and embrace me, mighty Steppen.”
The crowd broke out in applause as Jocelyn studied Steppen with alarm.
It was a month later, when the Brotherhood Feast was marked to be celebrated. Every year since Yenna had been king chief, he had thrown a great party in honor of his Fendis brothers. They had not missed a year, save the one she had been gone. Yenna would not celebrate while she was missing.
Now as Jocelyn walked into the room, she saw men and women dancing and singing. She climbed the pedestal where the guards stood watch over the party, and smiled at all of them. She shoved her will out over them, their eyes glazed over and they looked at their feet. She stepped behind them to the narrow ladder that clung to the back wall. She climbed, went through the trap, and came out onto the roof.
Every warrior there instantly fell asleep. She walked to the center of the roof and closed her eyes, summoning her mightiest guardian.
She heard him before she opened her eyes, and her body flooded with emotion as she beheld Bounder. She rushed to him and hugged him.
“It is terrible. I find no joy in them. They all remind me of her. Take me away from here, Bounder. Take me to Drelis. Take me to Master. I cannot bear to stay here any longer.” She sobbed.
“You are the Blesstest. Your duty has not changed. You must take Drelis’s fate and make it your own. If you do not, her sacrifice was in vain.” He lifted her into his stone arms, held her like a baby.
“Have you decided on a father for your hero yet?”
“I cannot find love in any eyes,” she said. “I cannot find joy in any man’s presence. I am very young. I am only seven years of age. Why must I pick a man now? Why must I give myself away at such a young age?”
“Maybe you should not,” Bounder said. “Maybe you can wait until you are of age. And maybe the might of the nation is a bit older than you. Maybe the right man will pass you by while you are growing. Does your heart tell you of any possible father?”
“I long for Steppen. He is powerful and noble. He has no wife, and his wolf is mighty. His dedication to me is flawless, and I cannot control him with my power. No other man I have found can resist me.”
“How much older is Steppen?” Bounder asked.
“He is ten years older than me. But he is perfect. He will be the War Pack leader one day, and his love for me is great. He possesses strength of mind and character. His sons will be heroic, of that there is no doubt.”
“Ten years is a long time. A man of honor will not take a bride so young. And it is unfair to ask him to wait that long to embrace love. This man may be perfect, but he is not right. If you can love another, then you should.”
She nodded. Bounder bent his head in the dying light of the sun, and she kissed it. She patted him, then he turned. He crouched, summoned up his power, and with a blindingly fast pump of his legs, lifted into the air like an arrow shot from a bow.
The party went on. Toasts were given. Speeches made. The great orators of the party spoke of her often, of the jewel taken from them and the luck that won her back. Oaths were taken in her name, and Jocelyn walked the room looking at every boy and every young man, searching for any sign of power enough to give her a hero.
She saw Flak and her brother Locke sitting at the table eating, and stepped up behind them.
“A blade,” Locke said. “Or better yet, a great hammer. The man who kidnapped my sister deserves a great hammer. It should be brought upon the side of his face, repeatedly,” Locke said. “He needs to be seized on sight and beaten to puddles of blood and meat.”
“Here, here!” Whelter said. He was a gross man who sat beside Flak. He was already sweating and red-faced from ale, and gripped a turkey leg like a bludgeon, slamming it against the table. “Pulp,” Whelter said. “Puddles.”
“After we talk to him?” Flak said.
The other boys shook their heads and cursed, but Flak held his hands out and nodded. “We need to ask him a few questions.”
“Questions prodded out of him by a great and mighty hammer,” Locke crowed.
“Torture only answers tortured answers. No, we need to know how he got her, or we can’t keep her safe from another,” Flak said.
“We need to know where he took her,” Locke said.
“We need to know how many pieces he wants to be cut into,” Whelter said. All the boys laughed except Flak.
“We need to know how her hair turned blonde,” Flak said. He turned and smiled at her. “That is the question I need answered, and who better to do it than the beautiful girl herself.” He smiled at her, and she liked his smile. “How did your lovely raven locks get spun into gold, Jocelyn? I am dying to know.”
She smiled. Felt warm in his gaze. “Treachery foul,” is all she would say, walking away toward
Yenna, the rest of the boys talking passionately about destroying her kidnapper. Flak just watched her walk away.
She waited. Waited for the ale to stew in the celebrants a bit before she walked up to stand beside Yenna, then waited for his eye. When he finally did turn to her, he stared at her for a long time with eyes the most intense she had ever seen. Raw power ran through him like a raging river, and she knew every man who stood before him felt some modicum of fear in his heart, but she could not feel this fear. She had seen the boy crawl out of the pit. She knew no other fear.
“I’m going to marry your grandson,” she said.
Yenna grinned and winked at her. He looked away and started talking to Sallon Black Hand before turning back to her and eyeing her again.
“You’re serious?”
“It is your best laid plan,” she said. “You will, in this one step, bind Fendis and Ragoth clans together. You will hammer out peace between my father and you for the rest of your days. And you will make peace a mandate for Flak and my brother when you are gone. It is the only match that can be made.”
“You think like a woman ten years older,” Yenna said. “A smart woman ten years older.” He drained his ale and set the mug down. “I will mention it to him and see his response when we get home tonight.”
“No, Yenna. Be bold in this, as you have been in everything, and you will find success. I ask only that you be who you are.” She curtsied.
Yenna stood and banged his mug to the table with three sharp reports. All eyes shifted to him. He hoisted Jocelyn up to the table and set her on her feet atop it. Flak looked to Locke, whose face was suddenly deadly serious. The room’s chatter died down, and Yenna smiled across the massive table at Oa.
“A match has been proposed, Oa, my good friend. I would hear your thoughts on such a match.” Yenna’s smile was wide, his cheeks red with drink.
“You have my daughter before you. Who would you match her with, mighty Redfist?”
“It is better coming from the mouth of the babe herself.” Yenna looked at Jocelyn and whispered. “I will not make him marry you. It is not my way. I leave it to you and Flak. Let’s see how well you talk to your man, if indeed he is your man.”
Jocelyn felt her skin go flush as she thought of speaking to Flak. Too much rode on this conversation. If he denied her, any other man she chose would feel slighted, would feel like her second choice. She needed to make this happen.
She felt the weight of the moment fall, crushing on her shoulders.
Upon the table she walked, stepping carefully over plates and cautiously around platters. She passed mugs of ale, both drained of their contents and still brimming, and came to stop before Flak Redfist.
She felt a stab of fear in her heart as she looked at him, seeing the might of a lion and the mind of a fox. “I will marry Flak Redfist,” she said.
Flak laughed, and her heart stopped. He looked past her to Locke, but she couldn’t focus on that. She needed to keep her attention on him. One false move and she would lose him forever.
“And I would be honored for the duty of being your husband, young one, but I am to take my brand this month. I will have to choose a bride of proper marrying age. You are but seven, me twelve. You will not be of age for five more years. I’m sorry, young one, but I must find another bride. Although looking at you now in your dress and combed locks, I can’t help but grieve that unlucky chance that parted us so grievously with years.”
When he looked at her then, she saw it in his eye, a subtle fascination, a quiet voice within him speaking her name. She wondered if that voice was being put there by her goddess or by true affection. She realized then if this match did indeed take, she would never know if his attraction to her had been real.
She leaned forward, too awed by him to speak and be heard by all. Too scared to say it all out loud. “You will wait for me. I am your wife. I have seen it. I will give you a son, and what a son he will be. I will love you better than any other woman can. I know what you are, while others only guess.”
His breath caught in his chest. His eyes widened, and she knew that was not her. This was not the impression left on him of her beauty or her mind. This was some awareness of peace, the part of him that dreaded a fight with her people. This was a nudge by some goddess, or the voice of Ragoth in his ear. This was the condemnation of a constant question within her heart of his true mind in this moment, a doubt that would fester for the rest of her life.
“What am I?” he asked. His voice was breathless. The moment hung over him like a sword poised. She knew she held him, either by trick or by true, held him fast to her next words.
Give me the words. She pleaded. Give me the words to lock him to a match, the words I don’t have that would deliver us to a life together. “You are the father of the Fist of the Mountain. I have seen his wrath, and I have felt his power radiating through me. Can you feel it now? Can you feel the potential within you to be the father of a god?”
“I have dreamt of him.” His voice cracked, and he hushed his whisper to barely a breath. “I can feel his power.” Flak clenched his jaw, holding back the tears with his last bit of will. “He scares me.”
She felt cold, felt the weight of her future sitting on this man. This man had been prepared for her, had been given visions of his son as given to him by her. It would have to be enough. Would have to be enough to suffuse her with hope for their life together. It would have to be a balm to her fears.
Jocelyn nodded. “Me, too. Will you marry me, Flak Redfist?” she whispered.
“Yes. I will wait for you, Jocelyn.”
She tried not to cry.
III
27 Years Before The Escape
From the street outside the Temple she could see Bounder watching over her, her tireless Sentry as the crowd danced around her and the women served food. She did not know how to cook. At thirteen years old, Jocelyn still did not know what to make for her groom, but the festival was in full swing.
Oa drank with Yenna, both men talking loud about the might of the children of both houses. Oa demanded that that boy be allowed to pull a wolf, as if his thought on the matter would influence the wolf at all. Jocelyn knew the blood called the wolf. The soul would decide if their child pulled a soul bearer. Jocelyn could not stand by and listen to the plans of the two king chiefs for her son. She turned to go and start her meal for Flak when she saw a cloak that didn’t belong. The cloak was a deep black with a vein of purple woven through it, and the woman wearing it slouched as if she were old, but Jocelyn knew she wasn’t. She braced herself for what was to come, then followed.
She would be missed if she stayed away for long. She would have to make this fast. She followed the figure up the street, fighting to keep her in sight. She had trouble keeping her eye on the figure through all the taller people surrounding her, but as her heart worried she would lose her, the soul throbbing within Jocelyn knew she wouldn’t.
When the dark figure ducked into a shadow under a bridge within the city, Jocelyn looked around for a curious eye before diving into the black. The carriages riding overhead made a terrible ruckus, but Jocelyn had no trouble hearing when the figure whispered.
“Congratulations,” Drelis said. “Who did you choose?”
“For husband?” Jocelyn asked. “I chose Flak Redfist.”
“Does he love you?” Drelis asked.
“I do not know. Sometimes, I think he does. Others, I think he is playing at love. His heart is restless. He is seeking something to cling to. I cannot be that for him.”
“I’m sorry,” Drelis said. She stepped out of the deepest gloom and became a lighter shade. Jocelyn could see her face, and the large bruise that sat her cheek.
“By the Blesstest, what happened to you?” Jocelyn said. “Who did this to you?”
“His name is Meric.”
“I will send Bounder after him,” Jocelyn said.
“No, Jocelyn, this man is dear to me.”
“Dear to you? Drelis, how c
ould you say that? He hurt you.”
“I liked it,” Drelis said with a sob. “I crave mistreatment from my lovers. I find sex and pain merge into one to create pleasure sweet and terrible.” She heaved a great breath, fighting to hold back the tears.
“You must ask the Demontser to take this desire away from you. You must tell him it is impure and—”
“I will not. I do not ask things of him,” Drelis said. “He gets angry if I request anything. He demands service without care for my needs.”
Jocelyn lowered her head. “I’m so sorry.” She began to cry, and Drelis huffed.
“Do not cry. Not today, when you marry a man who will care for you and give you my child and make for you a life,” Drelis snapped. Jocelyn pulled back in fear and pain, but silenced her tears. “Is he a great man?”
“He will be a king chief one day,” Jocelyn said. “He will make of me a queen.”
Drelis chuckled. “I doubt that.” She sneered. “You are destined for princess, not queen.”
“What would make you say that? He has been training for king chief his entire life. The crown skips a generation if it can. His father was not king chief, so he will be.”
“No, Jocelyn, he will not. Your child will supplant him, either by force or personality. Your child is going to be a king, not your husband. If your Flak takes his throne, your child will kill him for it. You must warn him off or you will find sorrow — and your child, my child, will know darkness.”
“That will not happen. My son is destined to be a great leader, a man who will lead the world and save it. He will know no darkness.”
“Destiny,” Drelis said with a dark laugh. “Destiny is fickle. It can be shoved off course at a whim. Your child must be forced down the path of righteousness or he will stumble.”
Jocelyn wanted to go. She did not want to be here in this darkness sulking under this bridge with her friend. She did not know how to leave, so she stayed near.
“I have something for you,” Drelis said. “For your husband or your son.” She pulled out a glowing globe. It possessed within its glass shell a faint light, throbbing and stirring.