by C D Beaudin
“Trade routes must be patrolled by guards—well, that’s just a waste of military.” He grunts and agonizes over the laws he must learn. “What on Ardon is a trading pass?”
He lifts his head as a knock raps on the door. “Come in.”
The door opens, and his guard, Abe, looks very timid and sweat shines his brow.
Babinoux raises his eyebrow. “Abe, what is troubling you?”
The boy of twenty looks at him, eyes darting.
“Uh, well-well, there is a-a girl—”
Babinoux holds up a hand, and the boy closes his mouth.
He takes a deep breath, straightening up. “Sir, Lieutenant Arkov and his patrol have brought travelers, one claiming she is the late Princess Awyn.”
The general drops the documents. It takes a moment for him to understand what was just said.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
The boy nods.
Babinoux leans back, exhaling deeply. This could be his chance out of the role he finds himself in. He’s not cut out to be king. But can an eighteen-year-old really run a dying kingdom? He shakes his head. There is no way this girl is who she claims to be. Awyn perished. I saw it with my own eyes.
He takes a breath before stepping into the throne room, where the lieutenant has the supposed princess and her friends held. He opens the doors, and the group turns as he walks in.
Arkov walks over to greet him.
“Sir, the one who claims to be Princess Awyn is right over there.”
The general follows his gaze to one of the two girls looking at him. One has long, brown hair and violet eyes he’s never seen before.
But when he lays eyes on the next girl, he knows most certainly that she’s Awyn.
The princess lifts her chin, stepping toward him. “I should expect that my father’s general would recognize his own princess,” she says, in a cool, monarch tone.
“And you can expect me to be wary with such claims as yours,” he replies in an equally chilled voice.
In her eyes flicker the hint of amusement.
“You play a good game, General Babinoux, but we both know you know who I am, or you wouldn’t have engaged me.”
The general tilts his head ever so slightly.
“You are correct. But I cannot just give the throne to an inexperienced eighteen-year-old girl. You have had no training, nor do you have a husband, whom you were supposed to be able to lean on for advice and during times of war.”
“If you haven’t noticed, General, this is the time for war. War has already spread. You cannot lead an army when you have no idea who you are fighting.” Her eyes narrow. “I do. I’ve spent much time with the sorceress when I fell into the ground. I have walked among a battlefield tainted with the sour smell of Sanarx blood. I have escaped, I have fought, and I have killed.”
She walks closer, only feet away from him and looks into his eyes. “You think me inexperienced, but I am the only one who can think like Revera, the only one who can fight this war better than a warlord—better than a king.” She tilts her head, and whispers so only they can hear, “Are you really resisting giving me my title, so you can sit on my throne, General?”
Babinoux swallows. He lifts his head, eyes looking forward, at attention like a soldier.
“No. I would never do that.” He looks down at her for a moment. “Leading is tiresome and trying. I’m not cut out to be a king,” he says, once again so only they can hear.
Awyn smiles, nodding in satisfaction.
“Glad to hear it.” She returns to her monarch volume. “My coronation will be held tomorrow at sunset.” She turns to walk off but is stopped by the general’s voice.
“Heed my warning, Your Highness. I may be willing to listen to you but many of my subordinates and equals will not be so eager to listen to a child. They may riot.”
Awyn turns to look at him.
“After what I’ve been through, I’m no longer a child.”
She walks off, calling back to him, “Let them riot.”
Revera paces. My magic must have amplified his strength, that’s how he could throw the knife into the wall. Besgeds are strong but they’re no gods. But if I amplified his strength…then why can’t he bend the bow? Forcing the Dia was supposed to bring balance to his soul so I could take control of it, reverse it back to when he was Slayer… But why can’t he bend the bow? Was his identity as the Bowman so strong, that’s why he could bend bronze? That doesn’t make any sense.
“Are you going to tell me who Awyn is?” Aradon asks, watching her pace.
Revera stares at him for a moment. She took his memory away, so this is normal.
But why can’t he bend the stupid bow?
She takes a breath, putting that aside for more important things. “Awyn is the Princess of Mera. You must kill her. She has been a thorn in my side for eighteen years. Her coronation will be coming up, so you can wipe her and her forsaken friends out then.”
Aradon lifts his brow for more information.
Revera rolls her eyes. “Yes, there will be multiple guards, but luckily that shouldn’t be a problem for you.”
Aradon smirks. “True.” He bops the tip of her upper lip with another knife. “But what’s in it for me?”
“Killing. Isn’t that enough?”
He turns to her. “Not anymore.”
Revera clenches her jaw.
“Fine. I’ll give you an army, so you can claim Nomarah.”
Aradon nods, thinking for a moment.
“Okay, you have a deal.” He picks up the bronze bow. “But I’m going to need a real bow.”
“There’s a black stallion waiting for you outside. A bow will be waiting. But use the arrows. The bronze pierces better, making a swifter death,” she says.
Aradon raises an eyebrow.
“Where’s the fun in that?” He hoists the sheath over his shoulder anyway and exits the cave, leaving Revera alone.
“You’d better kill her, Slayer.” She shrugs. “If you don’t, no one will survive this war.” She turns, a smile on her face.
Maybe I should rephrase. No one will survive me.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The soft fabric ruffles under her fingers and the silk touch of the white pillows is foreign. The oak bed posts are rough, suggesting age. Red drapes hang over the bed canopy, tied to the posts, their chiffon touch sheer and soft.
Awyn can hardly remember the last time she slept in her bed. She remembers that the bed was so plush she could nearly drown as she laid there, her little body covered in pounds of blankets, because her father would always worry about her being cold.
She walks over to her old wardrobe, where the maids have prepared new clothes for her to wear. Opening the rich oak doors, she runs her hand along the silky and satin fabrics, the colors seeming infinite. She opens one of the wardrobe’s bottom drawers and pulls out a blue nightgown.
Untying her silk robe behind the divider, she slips on a nightdress, the lace hem falling to her ankles. It seems as if everything is silk, shining in the firelight from the stone fireplace. Shutting the wardrobe, she walks over to her vanity, and sits on the wooden chair, running her fingers through her hair and swallowing.
A choked back cry leaves her mouth. The aching lump in her throat loosens as she begins to cry. She rests her forehead in her hand, trying to stop as she covers her mouth with her other hand to contain her volume.
Her sobs are uncontrollable. She manages to keep them quiet, but still can’t stop. Her cheeks and throat become soaked with her tears. A strand of her hair falls from behind her ear, and before she gets the chance to put it back, a hand does it for her.
Shaking, she looks up into the mirror. No reflection. Her first thought is Raea, but this touch is too icy, even for an elf. The hand remains on her shoulder.
“How did you slip past my guards?” She shakes her head, knowing it’s probably better not knowing how he does it.
She sighs. “This place holds many memories. Lots o
f them painful, most of them.”
The hand doesn’t move. The icy chill of the touch becomes a comfort in her sorrow.
“It’s just too much. Even this room holds heartache.” She can feel the presence step closer to her, a hand on each shoulder. Awyn closes her eyes as silent tears fall. She exhales shakily. She looks in the mirror where a face should be. “Can I at least see your face? I don’t want to be alone. It’s perhaps the one thing that terrifies me.”
She can feel the presence guide her to stand as the hand is gently placed under her arm. Awyn stands and faces him.
Karak is silent, his hands rest softly on her waist. He looks down at her with tired blue eyes. Inside his usual stone stare holds sadness. A sadness that confuses Awyn, because it’s for her. She can tell, she’s seen it before. But this…it’s more than that.
“Are you going to say anything?” she asks so only they can hear, almost a whisper as she looks into his eyes. “I realize last time we talked I threatened to kill you, but is that means for your silence?”
Awyn tilts her head when he doesn't say anything. She sighs, looking down. “I’ve thought a lot about…well, I don’t know what this is. It’s nothing, really.” She looks at him. “But why do I feel something?” Her jaw tightens, unsure. “You are a terrible man. You’ve done terrible things and yet there is something in your eyes that says you feel what you’ve done.”
He seems to wince at this, his face contorting into a mirror of pain and sorrow.
Awyn can feel tears well in her eyes once again at the sight of his pain, and the feeling of her own. “Please.” She shakes her head, the silence unbearable for her. “Just say something.”
“Stop running.”
She tilts her head. “What?”
He tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, a chilling touch that holds care and longing—a contrast to his charming, venomous air.
“Stop running from your fear. It will only destroy you. You think yourself brave and cold…but you are weaker than you think. Everyone seems braver than they really are…” He looks down. “I know I was.”
Not knowing what to say, she turns away from him, walking to the window. Awyn looks out on the sleeping city below, an icy shadow over the stone. Snow covers Kevah. The moon is bright and will be full tomorrow.
She senses as he walks up behind her.
“Why did you come here?” she asks.
“Maybe I wanted to see you. To feel your beating heart against mine,” he says softly.
Awyn turns around to face him.
“But see, that’s the problem. My heart beats, and while my blood is cold, yours doesn’t thump at all.”
Their eyes connect, their gaze not breaking.
“Is that a real reason?”
Her eyes narrow. “Can’t it be?”
“I guess that’s up to you,” he says.
Awyn scoffs and turns away from him. Pain fills her. A pain of responsibility, and a pain of defeat.
“Why is it always up to me?”
He grabs her arm, whipping her around to face him again.
“Because you are able to! I cannot make it, I’m merely a prisoner…” His eyes are dark.
This is it, she thinks. This is when I get my answer.
“You make me feel human, Awyn. You make me feel like I have a soul. That everything good about me wasn’t stolen.”
She shakes her head.
“If you feel this way, then not everything was taken from you.”
After a moment of silence, some of the intensity leaves his blue eyes.
“And how do you feel?” he asks so casually, Awyn can’t even speak.
Her expression remains the same as she thinks for a moment. When she decides on an answer, she straightens slightly.
“When I kiss you, I feel like dying.” Her eyes narrow, but his stay the same. “But at the same time, when I kiss you…I feel hope.”
His eyes light up briefly, clearly not expecting that.
She shrugs. “If mortal enemies can fall…into whatever this is, then can’t a better future be possible?”
“And…what do you say this is?” He grips her hands gently and looks into her eyes. “What are we falling into?”
Awyn looks away, unsure of what to say, what to think. When Karak is near, her chest is heavier. It’s wrong, she’s wrought with guilt whenever he shows up and she doesn’t even attempt to kill him. But she can’t deny how she feels. She hesitates. Playing with fire. She’s conversing with a devil bent on destroying everything she loves, and she knows that he isn’t in control of his own mind.
But isn’t that a good thing? Doesn’t that mean that all those bad things he did…it wasn’t him? Doesn’t it mean that he’s a victim too?
She inwardly sighs. It doesn’t erase what he’s done.
She looks at him. “Is it a fall of good? Or perhaps we are filling our emptiness with something that feels good but isn’t? Is this, rather hope?” She sighs. “Hope and nothing else?”
He tucks another strand of hair behind her ear. “Does it matter? Do we need to give up something that may be the only thing that helps us survive this war? Is knowing what this is more important than whether it is right or wrong?” He sighs. “I know I’m a monster to you, Awyn. I know I’ve killed and destroyed…but haven’t you? Haven’t we both made a dent into this world that nothing will ever be able to repair?”
He looks away for a moment but returns his gaze to hers.
“This world will grow around the pain if it survives, Awyn…but will we?”
Their connected gaze doesn’t waver as she says nothing. Perhaps he’s right? Surely if they are victorious, the world will once again rebuild itself, just like it did in the Second Age after the War of Ardon ended.
But he is also right on another thing. If this war ends, and they live…will they even know how to go on? Will they know how to live in freedom without swords and blood and battle?
Will either be the same person?
Is that a bad thing?
She smiles, the weight of everything too much for her to think about another at the moment.
Awyn grips his hands. “Then…if we are not to survive this war…” She looks into his eyes. “Then the moment is all we have.”
His head tilts, smirking. “Well said, Princess.” He pulls her in. “Or is it, Queen, now?”
Awyn shrugs. “Empress is suitable.”
They chuckle and wrap their arms around each other as they look back out onto the snow laden fields of the Meran night.
Awyn sighs. Hope. Human. It’s as good a reason as any.
In the gray morning, Aradon’s black cloak flies in the wind as his black stallion gallops through the Dark Woods. The foggy forest is a perfect cover, much easier to go unnoticed than through Mera itself. His hood is over his head, shadowing his face.
His dark figure would scare the life out of anyone.
The sheath on his back clinks with the bronze arrows, but his bow is wooden. He still can’t work out why Revera would ever think he could bend bronze, but he’s writing it off as a temporary lapse in judgment.
His horse’s hooves thunder on the dead ground. Even the Dalorin don’t come near him, something that never happens. He’s menacing. And while silent, he’s never looked more lethal.
It takes him a day to get to the edge of the forest where the city of Kevah is in view. Revera had told him of a secret entrance at the edge of the mountain, and that he’d even been there before. But he doesn’t remember, he seems to be forgetting many things lately.
It’s evening now, the coronation will be held in a few hours. It won't be outside as it normally would be due to the frosty weather, so it will be in the throne room.
Tying up his horse, he makes his way behind the palace and to the unguarded secret entrance. Pushing the boulder aside, he steps in and climbs the stairs. When he emerges into the library, he instantly feels familiarity. Perhaps it’s the stench of coming death, or the fact that he’s b
een here before, but the deja vu is there nonetheless.
A door opens, and Aradon only has a split second to hide. He returns to the secret room and shuts the entrance. Through a crack in the wood, he can see a girl emerge.
She has black hair, fair skin, and red lips. Blue eyes. He lifts a brow, thinking this is what the even younger version of Revera must have looked like. Her eyes are more doe-like, compared to Revera’s sharp ones, her nose not quite as upturned, her lips not as full. She isn’t quite as tall either. The more he looks at her, the more he sees the differences between her and the sorceress.
She grabs a book and sits on one of the sofas, flipping through the pages, seeming uninterested. She puts the book aside and buries her face in her hands, running her fingers back through her hair.
The girl is clearly distressed. About what, Aradon can’t be sure. But there is something about her that is familiar as well, more so than the room he finds himself in.
A flash of a forest covered in snow. A snowball. Laughing—a girl’s laugh. Then a tumble and her face below his. Heat rushing to his cheeks, to hers.
Then back to the girl on the sofa.
His eyes narrow in confusion. Was that a flash of memory? Does he know this girl?
Is she the one he’s been sent to murder?
Chapter Thirty
Snow falls silently as Awyn walks through the palace grounds. The dead cherry tree is white, along with everything else. Normally, she would love the white, but now it’s just a reminder of the cold that Revera has cast upon Mortal.
Her black fur cloak trails along the white stone ground, her black boots padding silently as she steps softly along the courtyard. Awyn’s skin looks even whiter in the wintertime, making her a ghost. Her red dress underneath the heavy cloak wraps her in warmth, but no amount of fur can thaw her freezing heart.
It’s a ridiculous thought, she knows. But it feels true. No matter what happens…she’ll never be the same. She brings her face to the sky, breathing in the fresh air.
The evening is gray, no normal symphony of colors accompanying a gorgeous sunset. A cloudless sky, with no sun to be seen disappearing. There is no color anywhere. The city is gray, the plains are white, the mountains are black, and the infinity above is colorless.
