Kingsbane

by Claire Legrand

  Ioseph’s dark eyes had crinkled with laughter. “Well, no. It’s not as though God cuts open the sky and leaves a baby in the road for parents to find. But that’s what it felt like to us. And so we woke up, several times a night, just to look at you and make sure you were still breathing. That you were real, and ours.”

  Eliana felt much the same, eight years later, as she sat in the dirt with Remy in her arms. If she slept, she might miss something important. He might stop breathing, as he had done only days before. His stomach would open where she had knit him closed, and he would bleed out while she slept. She would try to heal him again, and her castings would fail her. His body would pale and shrivel before her eyes.

  So instead she lay awake, beneath a carpet of stars and a waxing moon, and listened to Remy breathe against her. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep; she had not yet recovered from what she had done in Karlaine. Her mind moved slowly, as if clogged with mud, and her castings still buzzed around her hands, like a faint itch she could not satisfy.

  And, of course, because nothing was easy, it was time for her monthly bleeding. She was bloated and aching, and while Jessamyn had offered her a soft fabric stopper from her bag of supplies, it was her last one, and Eliana had refused to take it, choosing to use rags instead.

  On the other side of Remy, Harkan shifted in his sleep and let out a snore. Eliana watched him fondly—the softness of his face, how even in sleep he seemed to curl protectively close around Remy.

  She carefully slipped out from Remy’s arms and shifted him into Harkan’s. At the movement, Harkan’s eyes opened a crack.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered to him. “I’ve just got to take a piss.”

  Which she did, far enough away from camp to enjoy at least some privacy. Then she wandered back toward where the others slept—Remy and Harkan, Gerren and Patrik, six Red Crown soldiers, and four of the refugees who had come with them to Karlaine: two men, two women. Rogan, Darby, Oraia, Catilla. Patrik had urged them to stay with their families—after all, that was why they had returned to Meridian—but after seeing Eliana bring Remy back from death, they had refused to leave her. They had appointed themselves as her guard, it seemed, which left Eliana even more uncomfortable than her bleeding.

  “They mean well,” Zahra murmured, appearing as a column of darkness at her side, so insubstantial that it would have been easy to mistake her for a trick of the eye. It would take her some time, she had said, to regain her full strength after being trapped in the blightbox for weeks. That was the word for it, she had explained. She had known of the mechanisms’ existence, but had been fortunate enough to avoid encounters with them until that horrible confrontation with Sarash in Annerkilak.

  “Them meaning well is not the problem,” Eliana replied, crouching at a small brook to wash her hands. Though she desperately wanted to be alone, she didn’t have the heart to demand the wraith leave her.

  “The problem is that you fear disappointing them,” Zahra said.

  “The problem is that when they look at me, they don’t see me. They see the Sun Queen.”

  Zahra was a mere glimmer in the night air. “The sooner you accept that these are not two separate things—Eliana and Sun Queen—the happier you will be, and the easier you will find it to exist in your own skin.”

  “I expect that’s true.”

  “But musings on identity and magic are not what you want to think about at the moment,” Zahra guessed, sounding amused.

  Eliana shot her a glance. “Rummaging about in my mind, are you?”

  “Only glancing.”

  “Then you must know what I’m wondering. Why do you think Simon lied about the blightbox? He must have known what it was, and yet he acted as though he didn’t when we brought you back from the Nest.”

  “I’ve thought about that,” Zahra replied, “and I’ve tried to explore his mind to find the answer, but…”

  “But you can’t, because his mind’s a horrible mess you can’t sort out.”

  “Essentially.”

  Eliana sighed, looking away into the night. “Maybe it’s simply that he didn’t want to distract me. He wanted to keep me focused on his mission, and not on trying to free you.”

  “Or he didn’t want to raise your hopes. Blightmetals are nearly impossible to shatter.”

  “Or he didn’t want me to waste my power on such an effort.”

  “That is highly likely,” Zahra conceded.

  Eliana crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. For a long moment, she was silent.

  Then she said quietly, “I should hate him, I think, or at least distrust him. But I don’t. Does that make me a fool?”

  “You’re not a fool. You’re a young woman, and you’re tired and lonely, and your heart holds a thousand different aches. And though I have little love for him myself and can’t read what’s inside his mind, one does not need to be a wraith to see certain things that are true.”

  A shift of air brushed across Eliana’s brow, a soft gathering of tension in the night’s fabric: Zahra’s kiss. “Go to him,” the wraith said gently. “He will comfort you, and that is enough for now.”

  Then Zahra was gone, and Eliana walked on alone. She avoided Harkan and Remy, made note of Jessamyn on watch at the western perimeter, and searched the night’s gloom for Simon.

  He sat at the eastern perimeter, at the base of a stubby pine—legs sprawled out, revolver at his left hip, sword resting on a bed of pine needles at his side.

  From a few paces away, Eliana watched him, unsure how to approach him. Once, she would have marched over and said something to nettle him so that he would nettle her back, and their exchanged barbs would liven her, clear her fogged mind and distract her from her cramping.

  But now she felt newly shy around him. How naked he had looked in the wake of that thread, how newly made and unlike himself, all the hard, cruel lines of his face gone soft.

  “I see you lurking,” he said, not turning to address her. “Do you need something?”

  She rearranged her features into indifference and gingerly settled herself on the ground beside him. She looked out across the grassy fields that shimmered silver-black in the moonlight, from the edge of their woods to the mountains on the horizon.

  “I don’t need anything,” she replied. “It’s just that I can’t sleep.”

  “Nightmares?”

  “Not this time. I’m afraid that Remy’s wound will open as I sleep, and that he’ll die and stay dead.”

  She felt Simon glance at her. “I understand that fear. I suppose it would do no good to reassure you, yet again, that both Patrik and I inspected his abdomen, and there is no danger of that happening?”

  “You suppose correctly. I don’t trust your eyes in this matter.” She held up her palms. Moonlight shone dully along the chains of her castings. “I don’t trust these either, or what they did.”

  “What you did, Eliana, was real and true. Remy’s alive because of it, and…”

  He fell silent, and when she finally dared to look at him, she realized at once that it had been a foolish thing to do, for moonlight suited him far too well, painting his ruined skin silver and gilding each gnarled scar. It had been a long time since she had examined him in a moment of calm. She noticed things she hadn’t realized she had missed—his long lashes, his full bottom lip, the weary lines around his mouth and eyes. How desperately he needed a shave and how utterly his unkemptness endeared him to her.

  “I’ve awoken your power, haven’t I?” she said, because if she didn’t speak, she would touch him, and she didn’t think she was ready to touch him, and really, she was too tired to touch him, too uncomfortable and too frayed. “That thread. That’s why it appeared.”

  It was the first time either of them had spoken of the thread, and with those words, Eliana felt something between them both give way and forge itself an
ew. The night around their bodies stretched and hummed.

  “If that is what’s happened,” Simon said quietly, “then things will change very soon.”

  She nodded. She had thought of that, though she wasn’t yet sure what it meant—how many things would change, and how they would change, and what would be expected of her, and if she would agree to it—and she certainly wasn’t ready to begin that conversation.

  Before Simon could do it for her, she asked, “Can I try to sleep here for a while?”

  He frowned at her. “We’ll leave in an hour. I want to get a few miles behind us before dawn.”

  “I know, but until then.”

  “Why here?”

  “Because you calm me,” she said simply, her exhaustion too complete to find a clever response.

  His eyes searched her face, and then he nodded. He straightened his legs, and then crossed them, then straightened them again, and moved his revolver and sword away from his body, and then looked over at her, frowning once more.

  “Should I sit just here?” He began assembling a pile of pine needles, a makeshift pillow. “I’m afraid you won’t be comfortable.”

  “Stop fussing.” She shrugged off her coat and balled it up, propped it against his leg, and lay down beside him, resting her cheek on her coat.

  Silence fell once more, this one new and fragile. Eliana kept her body stiff, and so did Simon, beneath her cheek, as if both of them were afraid to move, as if moving would shatter the world. When she breathed, she caught the scent of Remy’s blood. Her coat reeked with it, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the memory of him, so pale and small in her arms.

  “Thank you for not saying anything to Harkan, about what he did,” she whispered after a time. “I know you’re furious, and I don’t care. He wronged me, not you. I’ve taken him to task for it, and with everything that’s happened, I think that’s enough. If you attempt to punish him further, you’ll regret it.”

  He was quiet for a long time. “Very well,” he said at last. “I’ll say nothing, and I’ll do nothing.”

  She let out a slow breath, hoping that would be the end of it. Then, a deep, dull throb, as her cramps surged. She winced, gritting her teeth.

  “Are you in pain?” he asked.

  “I never experienced the pain that comes with monthly bleeding,” she replied. “Not until after my storm, when everything began. Now I can burn and ache and cramp like all the other women of the world. How fortunate for me.”

  “It’s unfair that you should have to bear so much.”

  “Me? Or women?”

  He laughed, a low rumble that made warmth rush sweetly down her body.

  “Both,” he replied.

  “And haven’t you had to bear unfair cruelties?”

  She held her breath, waiting for his response.

  It came quietly. “Yes, that’s true. But even so, I would take yours from you, if I could.”

  Then she felt his hand in her hair—gentle, cautious, as if he feared she would bat him away. She closed her eyes as his fingers traced faint lines from her temple into her knotted braid, matted with dirt and blood. But he touched her as if she were pristine, as if her hair were silk. She allowed him this for as long as she could bear, her throat aching, and then she caught his hand and drew his arm down around her, pressing his palm first against her lips and then her heart. She wondered if he could feel its wild drum. If she looked up at him, would she see him looking down at her? And then what? With the stars and the pines above them, and the silvered grasses whispering at their feet, then what?

  She could not find the courage for that, and instead allowed him to gently pry apart her fingers to lace them with his own. His warm, callused palm settled against hers, pulse to pulse. With his thumb, he drew circles across the back of her hand, and Eliana followed his caresses down, down, tenderly, gratefully, into a soft and dreamless sleep.

  33

  Rielle

  “Much has happened since my last letter. I’ll soon be leaving for Belbrion with Lord Merovec’s party. Yes, Belbrion. The seat of House Sauvillier. During Merovec’s visit, one of the soldiers who had survived a recent attack went mad and killed his compatriot. Then his own neck snapped, and another survivor started shouting in Lissar. I believe these soldiers were possessed by angels. And here is where I confess that I stole a blightblade from the Sunderlands Obex. Along with my castings, I keep this blightblade always on my person. And when I brandished it, the possessed soldier shrieked and collapsed. Merovec witnessed everything, and I believe I impressed him. I will stay in Belbrion for some weeks to browse the Sauvillier archives, which include many arcane texts from the Angelic Wars. So much of what is happening is unclear to me, and knowledge is the surest way to understanding. In addition… Audric, I do not trust Merovec. Your broken engagement with Ludivine is an open wound. I want to stay close to him—for your sake, Audric, my dear friend. Do not worry, but do keep your eyes open.”

  —A letter written by King Ilmaire Lysleva to Prince Audric Courverie, dated March 15, Year 999 of the Second Age

  Rielle awoke to the rap of an urgent knock on her door.

  Beside her, Audric groaned and turned away from the sound, tightening his hold on her. “It isn’t fair that I should ever have to be anywhere but in this bed with you.”

  She wriggled in delight against him and called out, “Evyline, you told me I could sleep in this morning.”

  The door swung open, admitting not Evyline, but Tal.

  Rielle scrambled to cover herself, tugging the blanket over her and Audric’s bodies. “Tal, what in God’s name are you doing here?”

  Evyline rushed in after him, looking most aggrieved. “I’m sorry, my lady, but Lord Belounnon insisted.”

  Tal strode toward the windows, cutting a quick glance at Rielle as he did so. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, sounding not very sorry at all, “but you need to see this.”

  He pulled open the heavy drapes, letting in a wash of morning sunlight, and then turned.

  “Eyes front, Tal,” snapped Audric, tugging on his trousers. He joined Tal at the windows, and his shoulders tensed.

  Rielle retrieved her dressing gown from the floor and hurried over.

  A crowd, perhaps one or two hundred strong, pressed up against the iron gates that separated the city from Baingarde’s lowest stone yards. Some pounded against the gates with their fists; others waved crimson banners. Through the closed windows, Rielle could hear the muffled sounds of their voices, chanting something over and over.

  A chill swept through her. “What are they saying?”

  Without a word, Tal opened the nearest window. Outside on the terrace, Atheria stood looking down upon the crowd, her ears pricked and alert. At once, Rielle heard their shouts.

  Blood Queen!

  Blood Queen!

  She stepped back from the window, immediately returning to the snowy ridges of Polestal. There, the villagers had bellowed the same words at her, their voices hoarse with anger and fear in the wake of what she had done—that man, a pile of blood and bones at her feet.

  And now here, in her home, in her own city, the same angry words met her ears.

  “Is it the first time this has happened?” asked Audric softly.

  “No,” Tal replied. “While you were in Kirvaya, it began. Only a few at first, but a larger crowd gathers each day. Ah.” Tal pointed grimly. “Here come the resurrectionists.”

  “The what?” Rielle crept closer, her heart beating fast, and saw a new, smaller group of people, all dressed in white and gold, come rushing down the road. They plunged into the gathered crowd, bellowing things Rielle could not understand, for there was suddenly too much chaos to pick out words. She heard only furious yelling voices, a distant angry din. She watched the crowd scatter and merge—gold warring red. Across the yard ran a small squadron of the roya
l guard, swords flashing. A frantic bell rang from one of the white towers capping the stone wall.

  “You’ve missed much while on your travels,” Tal said. “The resurrectionists is what some call them. The name they’ve given themselves is the House of the Second Sun. Apparently, they formed shortly after Ludivine reappeared, not dead but alive. They have become rather obsessed with you and your work. They walk through the streets, re-creating the scene of Ludivine’s death and resurrection, and her reappearance at your anointing.”

  “My God,” Audric muttered, turning away from the window.

  But Rielle stepped closer, pressing her fingers to the glass. She smiled a little to see those whirling white and gold robes, locked in angry combat with the red-bannered dissidents. Her defenders.

  “And the others?” she asked. “They believe me to be the Blood Queen, it seems.”

  “The more radical among them have even begun calling for your death,” Tal replied. “Often and loudly. Odo has been sending some of his spies to taverns throughout the city and then reporting back to me daily, keeping me apprised of any plots.”

  Rielle laughed. “Yes, I’d like to see what plots they could concoct that would endanger me for even a moment.”

  Audric turned, frowning. “This is not something to take lightly, my love. If word comes of what happened in Kirvaya—”

  He fell silent.

  Tal shut the window. “What happened in Kirvaya?”

  Rielle threw Audric an irritated look. “If I’m going to talk about this, I should like to get dressed first.”

  “Very well.” Tal’s gaze flitted down her body as he stepped past her toward the door. “Can you both please come to my office, once you’ve made yourselves decent?”

  “Yes,” Rielle said, “and Ludivine will join us.”

  “As will Miren,” Tal added.

  Rielle felt a surge of annoyance at the mention of Tal’s lover, the Grand Magister of the Forge. Telling Tal without an audience would be dreadful enough. “Must she join us?”

  “Yes, she must,” Tal snapped. “I’m tired of bearing the burden of you alone.”