The Dawn of the End (The Rising Book 3)

by Kristen Ashley

  “Yes.” She nodded swiftly. “I understand.”

  “However, is that what you hesitated to say?”

  “No, I simply…” She now shook her head. “You say no secrets, but you told me it is not for me to know how you learned about me.”

  “That is a secret that has been kept for centuries. Only the King of Mar-el know of it and only the King of Mar-el can know of it. It is not a part of me. It is not who I am. The knowing and not sharing of it does not put me in danger or hold something of import from you. My men know nothing of it. No one does. But me. And when we have our heir, he or she will know of it, for that is the only way it can be. And this is all I can and will tell you and it is not keeping a secret, my Ha-Lah. It is keeping a legacy.”

  She studied him closely before she nodded.

  They then stood on the steps of their castle, staring at each other silently.

  She broke it.

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “I am angry,” he shared. “And you were right, I am also hurt.”

  “Darling,” she whispered.

  “But I understand.”

  Her shoulders sagged with relief.

  “No more secrets, my queen,” he said softly.

  She nodded, her lips trembling, but she said through them, “Can I embrace you?”

  “There will never be a time you cannot do that, so from this point on there will never be a time you should ask that again.”

  At his words, she moved the short distance that separated them, pressed to him and folded her arms around him, laying her cheek on his chest.

  She held him tight.

  Aramus wrapped his arms about her and did the same.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, Aramus. I really wanted to. I’m so sorry I did not,” she said into his chest.

  He bent his head so his beard tangled in her curls and his lips moved against them when he replied, “It is done. Behind us. Think naught of it any further, my Ha-Lah.”

  She nodded, her cheek moving against his chest.

  “Do I need to look in on the girls so they know I’m all right?” he asked.

  He lifted his head as she tipped hers back and said, “Yes, though I believe Aelia is asleep. Dora is not. You worried her with what you said earlier.”

  “She should know Cass’s feelings for her and,” he stressed when it looked as if his wife would open her mouth to interrupt, “after witnessing the death of Mercy, know she’s protected at all costs.”

  “She lost her mother, my love,” she reminded him quietly.

  “And thus, she must know that in times of strife, when danger lurks and much is uncertain, she will be protected at all costs.”

  “She is fond of you, me, the men, she shouldn’t be thinking about losing any of you.”

  “In time, she will have no choice but to lose us all. The only choice all of us have is to hope that time is long.”

  Ha-Lah pressed her lips together.

  “It is young for her to learn of death, of mourning, of how you heal but don’t. Of traitors and plots and deception and danger. But she is a princess of two realms, Ha-Lah. And she is not five, she’s eight. She’s old enough to know.”

  “Aelia was there too.”

  “Aelia bounces through life in a bubble of cheeriness. Cassius has worked hard to build that around her. Nothing touches her and won’t, until the time Cass decrees it should.”

  “I wish to say at this time that we will be discussing if eight years old is the appropriate age to share about plots and deception and danger when it comes to our children.”

  For the first time in hours, Aramus smiled.

  His wife’s face softened when she saw it, and he shifted her out of both his arms and held her with only one at her shoulders, turning her and moving them up the steps.

  “I will look forward to this discussion.”

  “I’m thinking thirteen,” she stated.

  Aramus almost laughed.

  He was not going to shelter any child of theirs, of royal blood, of Mer blood, until they were thirteen.

  They would learn to be alert and cunning and prepared.

  “We’ll talk of it then,” he said.

  “When they’re thirteen?” she pushed.

  He started chuckling, doing it replying, “When they are here.”

  The doors opened for them and they passed through.

  When they were shut behind him, and he was moving her to the wide staircase that wound about the edge of the central turret, the supports of the railings made of stone carved in lacy versions of coral, Ha-Lah murmured, “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  She stopped them before they took their first step and looked up at him.

  He looked down at her.

  “You had every right to be angry, to lose your temper and rail at me. This time, Aramus, you had every right. So, my darling, thank you. Thank you for not shouting down the castle when you had cause and thank you for understanding why I did something hurtful and foolish. And last, thank you for loving me the way that you love me.”

  In that moment, he did not want to check to see if Dora was sleeping soundly, and if not, show himself to her so she knew he was safe.

  He wanted to throw his wife over his shoulder and carry her to their bedchamber.

  But he needed sweet Dora to rest easy.

  Therefore, instead, he simply bent his head, pulled his wife again into his arms, and he kissed her.

  Thoroughly.

  When he pulled away, and he knew she was of a mind she would not be averse to him throwing her over his shoulder and taking her to their chamber, he grinned at her and took her to check on Dora.

  And then, he took her to their chamber.

  96

  The Crew

  Princess Serena

  The Shanty, Notting Thicket

  WODELL

  Princess Serena, who had not bathed in days, and was wearing the rags of a dead woman, lolled in the crumbling doorway of a building that used to be a home, but time and neglect meant there was no door and beyond there was no roof.

  She had a large, heavy, chipped jug of grog on the step before her, a ragged blanket pulled over her head, and her shaded eyes aimed across the alley.

  There slouched a troll, a big one. She had not seen many in her lifetime, but of the ones she’d seen, this one was large.

  He had a vague blueish-green tint to his skin, much of which was on display since he only wore breeches, boots and forearm shields.

  He also had a mass of filthy black hair on his head, matted into ropes.

  He further had a pronounced underbite, to the point his lower teeth were exposed, and that lower set, unlike the upper ones, had large fangs.

  All his teeth were yellowed with inattention.

  She worried this mission would last so long, without cleaning it, her hair would get the way of the troll’s, and she’d have to have it all shorn off.

  She then stopped worrying about that, for she could be bald. Scarred. Skin and bones. Hairless, sunken and weak.

  And there would be no one to care.

  Perhaps, her mother.

  Perhaps, her lieutenants.

  Perhaps, Silence and Ha-Lah, who, in the short time they remained before being off to the realms they essentially helped rule due to the men who doted on them, she had taught a few hand-to-hand defensive moves and some minimal skills with how to use a dagger. And both had been kind to her.

  But not her sister.

  Not Chu.

  Never again her sister.

  Never again Chu.

  He and she had ended.

  No.

  He had ended them without allowing her to say a word.

  As for her sister, since it had happened, it had often come to mind how Serena did not want what she had when she had it, but when she lost it, she missed it.

  As she’d been doing, she forced her mind from these things and again took in every facet of that slumped, immo
bile troll.

  As far as she knew, trolls did not leave Airen.

  They did not go to Firenze because they detested the heat. Their bodies ran hot, this why the troll in her sights wore only breeches and boots even in the chill that had finally settled into Wodell.

  They also did not wander into Wodell, unless by mistake (and this could happen, for they were not the smartest of creatures). This was due to a war centuries ago, when the fairies, pixies and gnomes united in an unusual alliance to drive them and their blundering, heedless violence and gluttony out in order to claim the green land for themselves.

  And they could not breach The Enchantments as they not only weren’t very clever, the Sisterhood forbade it for they were thoughtlessly destructive, quick to temper, did not know their own strength, and easily caused harm to human and charmed folk alike.

  Thus, they resided only in Airen where many were captured and kept as pets whose sole purpose was not to receive affection from their owners, but to act as much larger and better coordinated guard dogs.

  So why was that troll there?

  She understood she was in the Shanty. And in the days she had been there, staking her claim to this crumbling doorway, being seen amongst the downtrodden, vagrants, criminals, addicts and lunatics, behaving uninviting, unfriendly, and faking being consistently drunk so they would not question her addition to the ranks, she understood that no one raised an eyebrow to a befuddled and constantly inebriated troll.

  But Serena did not buy it.

  She was noting a way about the Shanty.

  A few left to go do jobs during the day, these jobs mostly being begging for money in the city, earning it for the sole purpose of buying drink or drugs (or both).

  A few left to go to jobs during the night, these jobs likely nefarious or women and men who sold their bodies for the sole purpose of buying drink or drugs (or both).

  The rest simply stayed.

  Only the city guard came in, not frequently, but regularly, mostly to collect any dead. Those being the ones who had taken in too much ashesh or koekah, been too long at the drink, or perished of exposure to the cold.

  The guard carted the corpses away, literally, in open carts, with no ceremony and no emotion.

  And she suspected, but did not see, that they took them directly to the cess, which was adjacent to the Shanty, and dumped them in.

  She could not think that True knew of the depths of misery in this place.

  If he did, she had to believe he’d do something about it.

  However, she could not think on that now either.

  She could not think of True and his plans for his realm, knowing he was a man who would do something about this place, and how something settled inside her, knowing that. Settled for a land not her own. Settled knowing it had gone through an era of weak rule, but now found itself led by strength.

  She could not think on Ha-Lah and Silence, off to their homes, the danger they were all in and how Serena would need weeks, nay, months, of training them so they could properly defend themselves if they were called upon to do so.

  She could not think on how she could not fathom why she cared about that.

  She could also not think on how it felt, spending time with them during the little she had. And even if they sensed all was not right with her, they did not goad her to anger or bitterness, as her lieutenants (and she had to admit, her mentor) would do. They did not press her to internalize it, feed on it, use it to make her a better witch, a craftier warrior.

  They ignored it but did so seeming to endeavor to handle her with care, not knowing how to do that for they did not know her.

  But they tried.

  She could not think that if Chu had not ended things, if Elena had not been so hurt and angry she’d also ended things, Serena might have found…

  Teaching Ha-Lah and Silence…

  Their keenness to the task, their easy way of laughing at themselves when they did something wrong, but striving to do it right the next time…

  She would have found it…

  Fun.

  She could not think on any of that.

  She had to be in the now.

  And in the now, she had to know.

  She had to know why that troll was there, sprawled in the doorway, the area about him littered with empty bottles of spirits.

  For his doorway was not crumbling, no longer the entry to nothing beyond.

  His doorway was sturdy, with well-oiled iron hinges and a shiny-new lock at its latch.

  And what lay beyond was dark, the windows boarded from the inside, and it was one of the few buildings in all the Shanty that was stout.

  She sipped her grog, sparingly, for she’d not only had no baths, but also little food. She did this as Chu had taught her. She needed to embody her disguise, and in doing so, losing weight and being haggard, for doing this was much better than trying to look haggard.

  Mostly, she spilled it upon herself not only to appear intoxicated, but the smell also assisted in her pretense.

  There were many empty bottles around the troll. He belched often (and loud). He snored often (also loud). And he had a large, but dwindling, stack of crates filled with similar bottles ensconced in the entryway of the building. These crates, and the bottles within, full.

  Serena often wondered if it was the building, or those crates, that he was intent on guarding.

  But in the days since she’d claimed that doorway, wandering from it for spells, none of them long, and always coming back, it was rare she’d seen him take a drink.

  Was he conserving, as his master had not come to visit in many days?

  Or were those spirits a ruse?

  It was time to find out, she decided.

  Listing up, dragging the heavy vessel with her, protecting it as she’d seen others in the Shanty do, she began to approach him as he lay there sleeping (perhaps) and pretend she was checking his bottles for dregs she could consume.

  However, what she wanted was to see if her movements would make him alert.

  He was across and just down the alley from her perch.

  She was not even halfway there when her jug was knocked from her hand.

  It went crashing to the cobbles, splitting at the bottom, the grog spilling out.

  “What—?” she snapped, but stopped speaking when the small, empty coin purse at her belt was snatched away at the same time something thudded in her back.

  She vaguely noted the troll was lifting his head.

  She mostly noted two gnomes laughing and sprinting away from her, one carrying her coin purse.

  “Oy, scoundrels!” she shouted, for not a soul in the Shanty would allow their purse to be taken.

  Definitely not at the sacrifice of their drink.

  “Give that back!” she yelled.

  Remembering at the last moment to make it cumbersome, stumbling a bit, she gave chase.

  Down one alley and around a corner to another one, the gnomes’ short legs moved fast, but not faster than her.

  However, she started to feel uneasy for gnomes had other abilities to aid in escape, including the fact they could leap high and long. Further, they could swing with great coordination from vines, ropes or outcroppings, as long as they had something to catch or somewhere to land.

  They could disappear over a rooftop in a trice.

  And they were not doing this.

  Had she been found out?

  And if she had, were they leading her into a trap?

  The charmed folk could (and had) argue for millennia, but one thing was certain. Whichever one was first in creation, the pixies, fairies and gnomes were more Dellish than the Dellish, for they’d been there far longer.

  And they had their own gods they worshipped.

  She could never imagine any of them being involved with The Rising.

  She had a dagger in her worn boot and a strange star that had caught her eye in a shop in the Thicket. It was crafted of six short, sharp blades of steel attached seamlessly to an
inner circle. She’d practiced throwing it, and she was not yet adept at it. However, she knew it would cause great harm if thrown correctly, for example, embedded in the back of a thigh.

  A gnome was a small target she feared she did not have the skill to hit, and if she did, the harm that star would cause would be much more egregious than to a full-grown human.

  But should this situation deteriorate, she had it in a pouch attached to her other belt that was worn inside her tattered dress, against her skin.

  Both gnomes turned down another alleyway, and alert and cautious, Serena followed them at the same time scanning for possibly more who might be involved in this caper…or whatever was happening.

  They went down yet another alleyway and she began to get concerned.

  She had wandered the Shanty somewhat copiously, but she did not know it. Not close. It was not huge, but it was a maze. A mishmash of wynds and closes. She could easily get trapped in a dead end or so lost, it would take ages to find her way back.

  The gnomes again turned, taking another alley, and Serena was wondering if she should leave it at the fact she gave chase, find another bottle of grog (for she had another purse inside her belt with some coin alongside a parchment signed by True that she could show to the guard at Birchlire to be allowed back in, no matter her state when she returned).

  She didn’t finish wondering.

  The gnomes ducked into a doorway, disappearing inside an abode, and when she stopped outside it, deciding she was not going into those murky depths and wind up in a trap, a voice called out, “Princess Serena, you’ll want to walk in here and hear what we have to say.”

  She stared into the depths just as a match was struck and a lone candle was lit on a table at the back wall.

  One of the gnomes was standing on the table, the other one climbing the rickety chair at the side to do the same.

  She did not move.

  When the other one was also on top of the table, he turned to her and stated, “Approaching that troll would ruin everything we’ve been working to achieve in the Shanty. But worse, it might save The Rising.”

  At these words, she walked through the door.

  The gnome that lit the candle lit another one beside it before he hopped down to the seat of the chair, then to floor and moved across the room, disappearing in the shadows.