The Broken Bow

by C D Beaudin

  “Since we fell from a tower. And that wasn’t a joke.”

  Saine rolls his eyes. He’s not really the one to tell jokes. He’s more the sarcastic, dry humor type. Kepp is the joke teller. But everyone is in such a mood, Awyn supposes he was just desperate.

  They all are.

  Until, through the cold and sun, Awyn spots what’s finally the end of their journey.

  “Look! Up there.” Awyn points.

  The others weakly look up as they ride and are blinded by what they see.

  An emerald palace rises from a white border of stone, curved in a perfect circle. The palace has many layered spires, but with a unique squared off tip, not pointed. The snow reflects green around the large city. The great mountain behind it can’t block the sun from making the city shine.

  Even from a distance, it’s beautiful.

  Miles away, the group’s spirits lift.

  “We are here,” Adriel says under her breath. “We’ve made it.”

  They all breathe sighs of relief, but Awyn just stares, her eyebrows knitted together, and Kepp notices.

  “What’s wrong, Awyn?”

  “I have…a terrible feeling.” She sighs. “Something’s gravely wrong.”

  Kepp seems uneasy, but also dismisses her concerns. “All right, but let’s worry about that when we get to Rohea. We must rest and eat.”

  Awyn nervously nods.

  He slightly smiles, gripping her ice-cold hand for a second, and they continue to ride after the others.

  They seem to move faster now the end is in sight and gallop to the gates of the city. Guards open the black bar gates, and they ride in, but Kepp and Saine halt the horses after the ones in front of them stop.

  While the other soldiers ride off, the captain that questioned them back in the tundra talks with the guards under a roofed post, a fire flickering in a stove. They mutter, and he points at them, but before Awyn can stop him, he drags her off the horse, the others doing the same with her family.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she demands, but the captain just wraps bonds around her wrists. She can hear the struggle Kepp and Saine are putting up, and Adriel pleads with one of the soldiers not to harm the still injured Saine.

  “We don’t take any chances here. Our people are starving and weak. We protect them at all costs. With the curse Revera put on our kingdom, we are vulnerable.”

  “But we aren’t here to harm any of you!” Awyn staggers forward as he pulls the crude rope.

  “Like I said before, we don’t take any chances.” He pulls her along, and being led like a dog, she can see the city of Rohea in all its…

  Glory is no longer the word for it.

  White houses are crawling with vines and moss, mounds of snow on the roofs and streets. Few houses have windows glowing from fires, and only the guards’ boots on the stone path make any sound. Even the wind is silent.

  They approach the palace entrance and pass through two emerald marble pillars placed at either side of the tall rectangular archway. A large ripped green banner, with a gold perimeter and an embroidered equally gold leaf hangs lifelessly. The slightly swaying flags adorn the top of the archway.

  The Rohidian Flag.

  The tear is straight up the middle, splitting the leaf in two. The gold no longer shimmers in this dismal city as the sun hides behind thick, gray clouds that won’t be going away any time soon.

  The hope has been sucked out of Rohea. All of Rohidia, in fact. Awyn can’t feel even a shred of joy. As they walk through the archway, Awyn spies a hint of gold and picks up a smaller flag that’s ripped at the corner. She holds it as they walk through the palace. The green ceilings, floors, and walls show their reflection. A few servants darkly hustle around, but otherwise the palace is empty, at least in this part.

  Smaller archways stretch into corridors, and every once in a while, there is a richly colored oak door, but they stick to the large archways in the high ceiling palace. Every single flag they have come across has been ripped, possibly part of the curse, Awyn gathers.

  “Are we going to the throne room?” Saine whispers to Awyn, his shallow breathing hollow behind her.

  “Most likely,” Awyn whispers back but is yanked by the captain.

  “Look forward and don’t talk,” he demands.

  Awyn contorts her face into a glare but she does as the soldier commands.

  They turn a few corners, pass a few more guards. Then the archway to the throne room comes into view. The green rectangular pillars have a golden vine wrapped around them, with delicate golden leaves attached to the vine.

  In the throne room, two pillars sit on a dais, as emerald as the rest of the palace. The thrones are pure, sparkling gold with rich, red carpet at their bases. A crystal chandelier hangs from the highest level of the honeycombed ceiling, but the room is dim as the drapes have been drawn behind the thrones.

  The throne room is otherwise empty.

  Awyn and the others are shoved onto the ground. From the corner of her eye she watches Kepp repel the grip of one of the guards. The guards push their heads abruptly forward, so they’re bowed. Awyn hears a door open and glances up.

  A solemn man walks up to the right throne and sits. Awyn, has never met her uncle, but she somehow knows this is the man her mother told her about. Even without the throne, she’d know.

  Atta.

  He sits hunched, his face blank, his eyes seem dead. His beard is short but not neat. Dark blond hair touches his shoulders, grayed and tousled as if he hasn’t been able to sleep. A creamy gold shirt, brown pants, and black boots clothe him but they’re only slightly nicer than the soldiers’ garb.

  He does not look like a king at all.

  “Why trouble me at this time, Baran? You do realize my daughter is very ill?” he says, his voice loud but without emotion.

  The captain steps forward.

  “My King, we have brought visitors who—” He stops when a door bursts open.

  Awyn looks up, and a younger man rushes in. She recognizes this man—their savior from the slave markets, though, she can’t remember his name.

  “Father, Brega has collapsed!” The young man’s worry is glaring.

  Atta stands, his face flushing with concern.

  “Did you call for the doctor?” Atta asks.

  “Yes, I sent word, but he might not get here for days yet. He’s in one of the outlying villages.”

  Atta’s worry quickly pales into horror.

  Awyn looks over at Adriel, who seems eager to stand. She wants to see if she can heal the princess. Awyn takes a deep breath. Time to do something stupid.

  She stands up and runs to the throne, dropping to her knees.

  Atta snarls, not seeming impressed at her sudden outburst of begging. “What is the meaning of this?” he yells.

  The guards gasp, rushing to her. They grab her arms, but she fights them and looks up at her uncle.

  He looks down in disgust at her, no doubt not recognizing her.

  Haydrid watches, and the group just sits there, mortified.

  “My King, please recognize me,” Awyn pleads. “My blood is not your blood, but my heart is of your line. I may not be of your sister, but I am of my father.”

  Atta’s face is red with anger. “Don’t make such proclamations. I will have your head if you say another word,” Atta has steel in his voice as he walks away.

  The guards grab her and start to drag her off. Kepp tries to take her from the guards, but he’s pushed to the ground.

  “I am your niece! I have suffered too much by the hands of one uncle. Don’t let me suffer at the hands of another one,” Awyn calls out.

  Both Haydrid and Atta turn to face her. Atta looks at his son, confused, then at Awyn.

  “Stop!” Haydrid shouts.

  The guards stop dragging her and turn her so she’s facing them.

  “Is it possible?”

  Awyn is sitting on her knees, her head bowed, her hair drooping over her face. The prince app
roaches her slowly. Atta audibly swallows as Haydrid kneels down, brushing her hair out of her face. She lifts her head; her face is no doubt a mess as the tears streak through the dirt on her cheeks.

  The prince scans her, searching for someone.

  Searching for her.

  “Please.” Her voice is as quiet as a mouse.

  Atta walks to his son, laying a hand on his shoulder.

  “No, son. Do not be fooled by the words of the sorceress. It’s not your cousin. She’s lying, a snake spitting Revera’s venom.” Atta turns, but then whirls around with a sword to Awyn’s throat.

  Behind her, Kepp and Saine roar with anger, and Adriel cries.

  “But you are no snake, are you, Revera. Why have you come to us? Are you here to curse us some more? Have you not had your fix of Rohidian blood?” His words are a sharp, accusing tone that make Awyn cower before him. She really is like her aunt. An exact copy, but only with a different heart.

  At least she hopes.

  “Wait, Father.” Haydrid lowers Atta’s arm with a gentle hand. The boy turns and looks into her eyes.

  Awyn lets out a heavy breath.

  Haydrid places a gentle hand on her cheek and looks deeply into her eyes. “Yes. I knew I recognized you.” He looks up at Atta. “Father, this is her. I remember seeing her when I was searching for Brega.”

  Atta turns, looking at her on the floor.

  “She’s…Awyn?”

  Both Haydrid and Awyn nod.

  “Please, Uncle. I know I am not your blood, but I am still your sister’s child. I knew I recognized cousin Haydrid at the markets. I had not met him before then, but one can tell a family member from the crowd. Haydrid has a likeness of my mother’s eyes.”

  Atta gasps, and tears stream down his cheek as he drops to his knees.

  “Awyn,” he says breathlessly. He hugs her closely, desperately, and the prince joins in. She shakes, and they tighten their hold. After a moment, they pull away. “How has this happened?”

  She tells them the short version. “I was in Nethess, a place of…I met my siblings. I still have a family, after all these years.”

  “Raea had other children?” Haydrid asks.

  “Yes, my sister, Adriel, and my brother, Kepp. He has a twin but was separated from us when I fell into Nethess.”

  “My, you’ve been through quite the ordeal,” Atta says, his hand on her shoulder.

  “Yes, but right now we must worry about Brega. My sister wants to see if she can heal her.”

  “She can-she can do that?” Haydrid stutters.

  “I need to see her first.” They look back at Adriel, who has stood, helping Saine and Kepp up. “She may be beyond help if she was held in Kahzacore.”

  “H-how did you...?” Haydrid starts. “Ah, forget it.” He sighs. “I’ll never understand elves.”

  Awyn smiles, but then her mind starts to flurry, and she collapses.

  “Awyn!” Adriel gasps. That’s the last thing Awyn hears before finding herself in all too familiar territory.

  Awyn’s brow furrows, and she lets out a heart thumping breath.

  Zyadar.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Blackness. Not darkness. But blackness. Weightlessness. She knows this feeling all too well. Awyn looks around. “What do you want now? Hmm? You want to burn me again? You want to torture me? Well I can handle it. I’m still alive. You want to have your sadistic fun? Fine, here I am. Have at me. I welcome you. The torture you put me through is nothing—nothing—compared to what torture I live through just by being alive,” Awyn screams into the darkness.

  “Is this what life will be like? Just a sickening game of dominos? When one falls, everyone falls. One mistake…and everything is just…over?” she scoffs. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe she’ll regret it for the rest of whatever life she’ll lead. Or she’ll be struck down as soon as the name leaves her lips—

  But what if it’s a good thing?

  “It’s games you like, huh, Zyadar? A game. A challenge. Well, I challenge you once more. Take your best darn shot because I don’t care! I’m a walking corpse.”

  Her voice becomes a breathless whisper—an action that seems to suck the breath out of her. “I just…I give up.” She lets out a breath, running a hand through her hair.

  “It’s not wise to challenge a Spirit.” A figure appears in the blackness. A man, with black hair, brown eyes—maybe black—and light skin. He’s rugged, and even handsome. Tall, broadly built, and in fine shape to be appearing in a place like this. Half his black hair is tied up, and on his feet are fur lined boots, his brown hood the same winter shielding style.

  “I’ve done it before. I’m still alive.”

  “That’s because—like you said in your little rant—Zyadar likes to play games. He’s deranged that way.” The man’s voice is deep.

  “I gathered that,” Awyn says as he walks over to her. He looks so normal, so lifelike, and yet there is something absent about him that makes her uncomfortable. He stops in front of her, a slight smile on his face.

  “I’m Wilke.” The name rolls off his tongue so naturally.

  Awyn finds it hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t in this realm. But something tells her the name is true.

  “I’m—” A sensation fills Awyn, telling her not to tell this man her real name. “Bella.”

  “Bella. Beautiful.” He tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear. “Fitting.”

  Awyn swallows. “Why are you here?”

  Wilke’s face drops. “I’m not here of my own volition. I’m trapped here. Destined to live eternity with the Dark One.”

  “Zyadar?”

  Wilke nods. “Yes.”

  Awyn can’t even imagine such a fate. If she’s tormented after five minutes here, what has happened to this man?

  “May I ask what you did to be imprisoned here?”

  Darkness clouds his eyes.

  “What makes you think I did something?” He doesn’t say this defensively, but with suspicion.

  “I just assumed—”

  “Well don’t assume! Didn’t the queen teach you that?” His eyes dart slightly.

  Awyn sees this was a mistake and backs up. “Who are you? How do you know I’m a princess?”

  His face has changed, his skin white, and his eyes a pure, stark black.

  “You don’t need to know my name, Awyn,” he spits her name through a tight jaw. “You don’t need to know how I know things. Just know this.” In a flash he is an inch away from her face. “I will be free. And I will destroy everything you love.” His voice has changed into a booming, thunder-like sound, with a scratching in the midst of it. “It’s time for me to return, Awyn.”

  And he’s gone. He didn’t fade away. He’s just gone.

  Awyn stands there, not confused, but filled with horrified amazement.

  “Did I just have a conversation with Crozacar?” As soon as the words leave her lips, the blackness around her starts to crack and crumble like a glass mirror. Shards fall, cutting into her skin. A scream escapes her lips as the sharpness tears into her. She can see her horrified reflection in millions of shards, each one morphing into a purple blazing eye. She screams, a bloodcurdling, bone breaking scream as she collapses to the ground, hugging her knees to her chest, sobbing.

  And the familiar blackness becomes dark.

  Awyn shoots up in bed. She grips the silk sheets tightly, her knuckles white. Sweat clings to her light, fine gold nightgown, and to seemingly every inch of her skin.

  Normally, she can’t stop screaming. That’s what Adriel told her. Normally, Adriel has to fight with Zyadar to free her from his torment.

  But none of that happened. She just woke up. He let her go.

  Why? She wonders. “Why would he do that?” And then it comes to her. He wants me to suffer. He wants me to watch as my world crumbles around me.

  She remembers what she had said in the Spirit realm. “You want to have your sadistic fun? Fine, here I am. Have at me
. I welcome you.” Awyn can barely believe it. She wouldn’t, if it wasn’t a recurrence in her life.

  “I challenged him again. That demon.” She falls back, her head hitting the pillow. Awyn stares up at the high emerald ceiling, huffing and anxious, regretting her bravado. “I’m such an idiot.”

  There’s a knock at the door, and she looks over at the smooth brown surface. “Come in.”

  The door opens, and Haydrid walks in, making Awyn sit up.

  “How is Brega?” she asks as her cousin sits on the edge of her bed.

  “She’s sleeping. Adriel searched her and gathered that her body would heal if her mind and soul does. She did some elf magic, and Brega dropped like a daisy in a rain shower.”

  Awyn breathes a sigh of relief, leaning on the headboard behind her. “I was worried. What happened?”

  Haydrid looks down. “She was captured…by Karak.”

  “Karak?” The name sounds familiar, but she can’t place it. Then it comes to her. “Wait, the Last Lieutenant of Crozacar’s army?”

  Haydrid nods.

  Awyn bites her lip, thinking. He would have to know the way to stop Revera from releasing Crozacar, right? But why would he help? She can’t threaten him, he’s immortal. What could she possibly say, possibly do, that would make him remove himself from this war? It’s not even his. It’s Revera’s. And Aradon’s. Kepp and Saine’s, Eldowyn and Hagard’s. The Five Kingdom’s battle. Mortal’s very survival.

  It’s her survival.

  What could he possibly have to gain in this war?

  Aradon, Eldowyn, and Hagard sit tied back to back in the Blood Chamber, sweat drenching their bodies, but the paint still clings to their skin. The chamber is hot and dim, lit by hundreds of candles, the firelight only flickering when they breathe. Dry blood cakes the floor and walls, made of yellow brick or maybe sandstone. The chamber is small and square, very humid. And a metallic, bitter taste is on their tongues. The blood almost seems like an airborne poison, the strangling smell from what must be hundreds upon hundreds of sacrifices.

  None of them know how long they’ve been in here. Aradon knows it could be days, weeks, maybe only hours—but there is no sun and no stars, so it’s pretty hard to tell time.