He considered for a moment. “Actually, she saved me more times than I ever realized. I had given up that day when my king had thrown me into the dungeon as Dariak’s conspirator, which was as far from the truth as possible. Kitalla effected our escape. She led us through Kaison, even managing to get us into the shops to better equip ourselves for our journey. And then, through all the battles, against guards, lupinoes, bounty hunters… She was always there, just a step ahead of everyone, pressing on and saving us all.”
He paused to catch his breath as his body reminded him of its wounds. “Her trials in Grenthar’s dungeon were impossible and yet she endured them. I could not tell you where she found the wherewithal to succeed, but she did, tearing down Grenthar himself in the process. I think in many ways she still bears those scars.” He caught himself and choked. “Bore those scars.”
Pacing again, he continued. “She found every way imaginable to get through every obstacle, and the more I learned about her, the more I realized it was all just a part of who she is. Was. She broke in to this very castle and stole the fire jade from the king’s own chamber. I have never condoned thievery, but I can’t help but marvel at her skill. Flashing her daggers, whipping through a battlefield, you name it. She was a force that couldn’t be tamed.” He bit his lip, for in the end she had indeed been tamed.
“She rescued me from myself, from my loss. And there it was that I fell in love with her, but I couldn’t give her what she deserved. I deserted her when she needed me most. And, in the end, it cost the ultimate price. The one price we all have to pay some day. The price that is the last one you pay as you leave this world behind. That price… that I would gladly go back and pay for her if I could.”
He wiped tears from his face as he lifted his head. “Your time in this world was too short. The pains you endured were too numerous. I pray you a better existence where you are now. A happier time. Better friends than I have been. Truer joys than you ever had here. If there even is a ‘someplace else.’” He lifted his arm up high. “To you, Kitalla. To you.”
It took Gabrion some time to calm himself as he wept, his body shuddering in agony. No one ever knew when they were going to die until the very last moments, but he wondered if his wounds would bring him to death’s door. He had been severely wounded before, but mages had always been around at some point to quell the worst of the damage and to ensure he would recover. This time, in this magic-dead zone, it was different. And he refused to mount a horse and scuttle off to some other place where magic functioned, not after his failure. Dariak would protest, he knew, but once the ceremony was over, Gabrion would secret himself away and let the world fade at last.
The sky was even darker now and he knew he needed to move on or he would actually miss it. With a great heave, Gabrion pushed himself toward the door, clutching his side as he went. Two fighters tried to help him, but he denied their efforts. “Just tell me where Dariak is.”
He made his way to the courtyard, hoping to speak to the mage before the funeral procession began. He wanted it made clear that he had prepared a eulogy for Kitalla and that everyone needed to hear his words. She needed to be remembered in all the best ways possible without lavish embellishments. Leave that to the bards.
His body wanted nothing more than to drop to the ground and be still. Gabrion refused to accept the demands. He staggered onward, seeking the courtyard where Dariak would be, probably with Randler and the others, and a pile of carcasses would lay behind them with a separate, special pyre for Kitalla.
Noises echoed ahead of him and he wished they all were solemn and quiet, honoring the dead as they should. He could make out talking in the guardroom before the courtyard, and he figured Dariak was preparing his final words. He could make it in time, if he just kept moving.
Torches lined the halls and guided Gabrion on ahead, yet still they were lost in the gray mistiness that enveloped Gabrion’s eyes. He wondered idly if he would ever see properly again or if the world would always be so drab and sullen. Even if he remained in the shadows forever, he realized, his forever would not likely last the night. He would stand vigil as Kitalla’s body burned in the flames, and then he would find his release at last. All that remained was to honor all she had done.
He drew closer to the voices and as he recognized the tones of his friends, he felt weaker and weaker. How could he face them at all after what had happened? Maybe they wouldn’t blame him for Kitalla’s death even though it was his fault for not seeking her out. If they did not blame him, then they were fools and did not see the truth of things.
Still, the echoes of their voices in the air sent chills down his spine. It was like sneaking up on them in camp as Randler and Kitalla were talking about dance moves and Dariak spoke of magical energies, while Gabrion returned from a successful hunt, bringing food for them all. He thought in some way that he would round the corner and see them all sitting around a campfire. He wanted it so badly, he thought he even heard Kitalla laughing in the distance.
Too far a distance, he remembered.
A few more steps and Gabrion reached them at last. They were mostly somber with the upcoming ceremony, and Dariak’s arm was wrapped tightly around Randler, their backs to the warrior as he approached them.
“Dariak,” Gabrion pushed through his lips. “I wish to say words for Kitalla this evening.”
“Gabrion!” the mage turned around to greet him and in that motion, Gabrion’s heart leaped into his throat, for he saw a shadow across the room and it looked just like Kitalla. He slammed his eyes shut and turned his attention to the mage.
“Gabrion, are you all right?” Randler asked. “What happened in the infirmary? Gretcha was in quite a state.”
“Tonight,” the warrior breathed. “You have to let me speak. Of Kitalla. Of all she has done for us. Of all she has been for us.”
Dariak’s brow creased. “I don’t think so, Gabrion. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“How could it not be?” he gasped.
Tinkling laughter sounded from the shadows across the room and Gabrion glanced over again, hating that sound at such a solemn time. He could see Verna laughing, chatting with someone who was just out of view.
“Gabrion?”
“Kitalla,” he said, distraught. “I saw her. I know what happened, Dariak. You can’t shield me from it.”
“What are you talking about?”
Another voice rose up then, “Yeah, what’s this about?”
Gabrion turned to the newcomer, his face creased in confusion. “It can’t be! You—you’re dead!”
Nonetheless, Kitalla was standing there in front of him. “No, Gabrion.”
“But I saw you…”
She nodded her head, her face unreadable. “Yes, you saw me, Gabrion. And yes you saw me die. But I did not die.”
The warrior clutched his head and Dariak shifted him over to a bench by the wall. “I don’t understand.”
Kitalla gave a look to the others and they stepped away, but only just. She then sat beside Gabrion to explain. “The wall in the courtyard collapsed. It’s there the king’s men came from. I awoke and followed them to you all. I was at the rear of the pack and when I saw how badly they were attacking and how hard-pressed you were, I had to do something drastic.”
Gabrion stared at her. “You ran up the line and cut them down side to side. It was… marvelous, but I did not go to help you. You—you died.”
Kitalla tentatively placed her hand on his shoulder. “No. I never struck a single one of them, Gabrion.”
He squeezed his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Magic doesn’t work here right now, but my dance skill does.” She watched him carefully as she broke the information to him. “I saw you, Gabrion, and I saw how you were fighting, but it was going to cost you and everyone if you didn’t fight like a true warrior.”
He turned his head toward her, not sure he wanted to hear any more.
“You were holding back.” Her eyes flickered back
and forth between his. “So I danced.”
Gabrion’s breathing became labored and he felt like the floor was dropping away from him. “What do you mean you danced?”
Kitalla broke eye contact with him as she dredged up the words and told him. “I bewitched you, Gabrion. I made you think I was coming to your aid. I made you see me joining the fray.” Then she breathed. “And then I made you see me die.”
Coldness ran through Gabrion’s body.
“I thought it was the only way to get you to fight. The only way for you to hold off the soldiers until Poltor could free our fighters and bring them to help. The only way—”
“You,” Gabrion hissed, cutting in, “made me imagine your death? You made me believe you were gone? Just to make me snap so I would kill?” The cold chills were gone, as was all the pain in his body. He felt nothing any more. His world had been destroyed, but now he felt as if he didn’t even exist. “How could you?”
She shook her head. “It was the only thing I could think of.”
Gabrion stood up slowly, bracing himself against the wall. His body staggered but he refused help from the others.
Kitalla rose up as well, watching him closely.
“You twisted our relationship against me,” Gabrion whispered. “You took everything away from me.”
“To give you the only chance of survival, yes,” she agreed.
“I lost—” but he was utterly baffled. He recalled all the things tumbling through his mind, all the heartache and self-loathing, but it wasn’t all real. She hadn’t been able to use her skills against him for a long time, so why now? Or perhaps she had been using them all along. Perhaps he was just a dumb puppet at her beck and call, doing all the things she wanted him to do. Maybe she had entranced him to slaughter Mira so she could have him to herself. Maybe she had guided him to Savvron after their fight with Heria so she could bewitch his father to convince Gabrion that his mother was dead—perhaps then she wasn’t. Maybe everything was a lie.
She stood there as his mind fell to pieces and she became a stranger to him. Over and over he kept remembering the agony in his soul at the thought of her death, that he was prepared to follow her this very evening into the abysmal unknown. Her sacrifice… hadn’t been a sacrifice at all. It had been staged, all to manipulate him into killing again.
The cloudy grayness of his vision grew deeper and he couldn’t see or hear anything anymore, except the one person who had ripped out his heart and then stood there staring at him, feeling justified for doing it. Something in him snapped and his fist lashed out, clocking Kitalla in the face and splattering her to the ground.
He felt his body being restrained and there was a faint echo of shouting that seemed miles and miles away. He saw Kitalla look up at him from the floor, the pain in her eyes having nothing to do with her bruised jaw.
Chapter 11
Convincing the
Hathren King
The day after the funeral ceremony for the members of Dariak’s army who had died in the attack, the mage decided he finally needed to deal with the Hathren king, even before trying to repair the damage between his friends. Further delay would only allow the peasants of the castle town more time to organize a revolt, and they barely had the forces they needed to maintain their current prisoners.
Dariak decided to greet the king in the remains of the throne room itself, the symbolic seat of power in the land. It was mostly in disrepair and, to Dariak, that best represented the state of things anyway. It took convincing to get all of his friends to gather for the meeting. Some looked at Kitalla oddly, shocked at the actions she had taken in deceiving Gabrion during the battle. Only Verna seemed to truly understand.
Randler stood beside Dariak despite the added injuries he had sustained. He could barely walk again, but once he was upright, it was mostly a matter of discipline to remain so. Ruhk stood on Dariak’s other side, a man chosen by this king as his commander, and perhaps a man whose words might be heard, even if only just. Gabrion took a place as far from Kitalla as possible, unwilling to even look her in the eyes. Carrus stood with him. Verna and Kitalla flanked the other side of the room.
The team remained silent and fractured and it took all of Dariak’s resolve to wait without trying to mend the recent wounds to his friends. He doubted Gabrion would ever forgive Kitalla, but her actions had indeed saved them all. Nonetheless, he had other matters to focus his energies on now.
The guards at the rubble-strewn entrance of the hall parted to allow the prisoners inside. There were no doors left to open or to ceremoniously slam shut. Only the booted heels of Dariak’s allies clicked into place to let the rest know that there was little chance for escape.
At the head of the procession, Poltor stepped with head held high, feeling more important than he ever had in his life. Not only had he found the king’s hidden lair, infiltrated it, and released the hostages within, he also would effect the king’s execution if this meeting went badly. His belt was lined with so many daggers they merely looked decorative at first glance. A dangerous pattern, but nothing more. However, each blade was sharp and ready for action.
With an odd salute and bow, Poltor greeted Dariak, then he spun on his heel and faced the king and his chancellor, drawing their attention to his belt in warning. He stepped silently aside and sank into the shadows.
The king looked battered and exhausted. He had taken some damage in the bout and though his wounds had been dressed, he had shunned most of the treatment offered to him, preferring to bear the role of beleaguered captive. Ieran, however, had taken every salve and sedative, and he stood there almost bouncing within his own skin at the situation.
“King Prethos of Hathreneir, I welcome you,” Dariak started officially. “As you know, I am Dariak, son of the great mage Delminor. I have ousted you from your throne and taken rule as Regent. However, I wish neither you nor this kingdom harm.”
“Spare me,” the king said sourly. “Get on with your sentence.”
“Then I challenge you to listen, and I don’t mean for you to merely let the words hit your ears, but for them to ruminate in your brain and in your heart.” He ignored the disgust on the king’s visage. “It was never my intention for us to fight.”
“Bringing an army to my doorstep—twice—does not exactly convey those sentiments,” the king retorted. His voice was cold and loathing.
“It was necessary for us to show our strength, lest you turn us away or kill us on the spot. We wished only to be heard.”
“Refugees, prisoners, talks of peace… All impossible things.”
Dariak shook his head. “Improbable, from your perspective, but not impossible.”
“It is the truth,” Ruhk stepped forward, drawing the king’s sneer. “Sire, I served under your command for years—”
“And deserted in the blink of an eye,” the king finished. “You were never among my highest ranked commanders. It is of no surprise to me that you turned traitor to Hathreneir.”
“No, sire,” Ruhk replied in his most respectful tone. “It is you who is the traitor to the land, for you bleed her dry of every man and child who can lift a sword. You throw them into battle while you remain here sending out orders without ever seeing the state of things before you.”
“Brazen words from a malcontent.”
Dariak tried to stop Ruhk from continuing, but the man had one last thing to say. “Would you raise your own son and train him just to send him to the front lines?”
“It is the right of the king to choose his soldiers,” the man said calmly, almost with amusement. “Only one of nobility would understand the situation well enough to make the proper judgments.”
“Proper judgments!” Verna barked. Kitalla grabbed for her but she wrenched herself away. “You are a tyrant who tears families apart without concern or care for their hardships. You shred us all down to nothingness just to fatten your belly on your throne.”
“Do I know you?” the king asked in a bored tone.
; “My father enlisted to your army twice so that I would be able to raise my siblings after our mother perished.”
But the man shook his head, “No, it doesn’t sound at all familiar.” The laughter in his eyes said otherwise. “Come now, what else, what else? You all have complaints and woes. Do share them now.”
Kitalla responded by taking a slow, deliberate step forward. Her eyes bore into his and she stepped without any expression on her face, her arms only slightly moving with each tiny step. Her fingers did not twitch, her lips did not curl. She merely approached him until she could feel his breath upon her face. His eyes twitched back and forth, wondering what she was planning, but without a word or comment, she stepped away. The king visibly trembled despite all of his attempts to control himself.
Into the silence, Gabrion whispered. “Where are they?”
The question perplexed everyone in the room and they all turned to him.
He saw only the king, and the king’s face now lit a deeper red as he faced his wife’s murderer. “Where are they?” Gabrion repeated.
The king kept his voice level. “Of whom do you speak?”
“Mira was here and she came with her parents. They haven’t surfaced in any of the searches of the castle or among any of the dead. Where are they?”
“I fail to see how it is of any business to you, murderer of their only daughter.”
Now a dangerous tone filled the warrior’s voice. “Where are they?”
The king drew a deep breath and he sighed almost comically. “Killing Mira was not enough? You wish to slaughter them as well?”
Gabrion cleared the space between them in a heartbeat, his hand grabbing the scruff of the king’s tunic. “I would pay them my respects and accept their punishment.”
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