The Might of Magic

by N M Zoltack

  But he had killed more than merely two. Any who still swore fealty to the Lis had been executed, Olympia was fairly certain. Jankin might have relished killing Li supporters or maybe he hadn’t. Olympia truly did not know the man. She had never met him. She did know that he had executed many, though, and she had learned as much as she could about his reign. He had been a good and even just leader until a very clear point.

  When his wife died. His first wife, she should say.

  After that point, Jankin had become a broken man instead of a strong, peaceful leader. In the beginning, when she had been young, there had been ships from Tenoch that sailed to the islands with regularity. There had been trade and supplies given, and the island had flourished.

  But then the ships stopped coming. Young Olympia used to wait on the beach for the ships to come. She had been so excited to see them, and she used to ask the sailors so many questions that they would laugh and shoo her away. She had taken to collecting seashells and turning them into necklaces for them to give to their wives so that she could coerce them into answering her questions.

  She’d left behind an even dozen of those necklaces when she’d left Xalac. She should’ve given them away years ago when it had become clear ships would not return, but she had turned bitter.

  Bitter. Hatred. Lust for power. Desire for the throne. She sought to do what Jankin had done, to somehow take the throne without any bloodshed at all, but that was not possible. With the war going on, so much blood had already been spilled, and she hadn’t gained any allies, and even if Bjorn did manage to somehow find her twin, what then? What could he do? He might not even know who he was! Even if he did, he had made no play for the crown.

  Maybe he did know and was waiting for her.

  Maybe he did know and did not care about reclaiming the throne.

  Maybe once she found him, if he did not know the truth until she told him, he would reject his parents and her.

  Maybe coming here had been a mistake. Dong Han had so longed to see the Lis back on the throne, but he had died before that had happened. Perhaps that was a sign that it could never happen again.

  A simpler goal. Maybe that was all she should wish for.

  She had been riding back toward the spot where Bjorn should come to return for her, but she halted the horse and stared upward. She longed to see a dragon up close, although she couldn’t say why. A dragon would not hesitate to burn her alive, given the action of the dragons three since they had made their triumphant return. Mayhap, deep inside, she wished for death because she would never sit on the throne. Antonius would not sit on the throne either. Rosalynne would not for much longer.

  The more Olympia reflected on the affairs of Dragoona, the more certain she became that the entire world was going to end so why shouldn’t she see a dragon before she died?

  76

  Princess Vivian Rivera

  The princess slipped from shadow to shadow, trying her best to remain invisible to any and all who might look her way. Even so, she worried that she would never get caught up to the Vincanans. What if the castle was lost before she even arrived? What if she was too late to help?

  What was Marcellus planning? The prince had agreed to marry her sister, yet he was marching alongside his bloodthirsty father.

  Just when she thought she had the infuriating man figured out, she realized she did not know him at all! He was vexing and frustrating, and she wished to slap him, to spar with him, to fight, to train under him.

  As much as she was furious with him at the moment, she could not help but admire his prowess with a blade. If they were to fight to the death, he would be the victor. She was certain of that. Oh, the battle might last a good, long while, but the end result would always be him besting her.

  Unless he would lay down his sword, and why would he do that? She was certain he was a competitive man. Weren’t all knights? And he had come to Tenoch under the guise of a tourney, hadn’t he? That had occurred while Vivian had been far from her home, but she had heard about what had gone on during her absence, about how his best friend had been killed while dancing with Rosalynne. He would have to forget that image for when he danced with Rosalynne after they were wed.

  It was strange, to think of Rosalynne marrying, to think of Marcellus marrying, to think of them marrying each other. It was for the sake of both kingdoms, and it should not seem so very odd to her. Rosalynne had known all along that she would have to marry someone to further Tenoch Proper. She had been raised for that.

  But Vivian had often thought of her own wedding day, and she had always been so certain of what styled gown she would wear, how she would do her hair… and she had been absolutely certain that she would marry for love and no other reason.

  Now, that seemed utterly absurd. At least for herself. There was no one that she thought of in that fashion and perhaps she never would, but she knew Ulric quite well, and she knew of his feelings toward her sister. Although Vivian had never spoken to Rosalynne about the man, Vivian had seen a few glimpses, some smiles, even a few laughs that suggested to Vivian that the feelings were not one-sided.

  Why? Why could the Fates have been so cruel to Ulric? Why couldn’t Rosalynne marry whomever she wished to marry?

  And the king… Marcellus’ father was a cruel, vicious man. He was not a man to be crossed. Once he found out about what his son had plotted behind his back, his father would not merely accept it and be joyous. Oh, no. Vivian could see him showing up at the wedding day and murdering both the bride and the groom.

  Marcellus might not have vocalized the thought, but he had clearly thought of Vivian as naïve, and he would not be entirely wrong, although she would argue that she had a great deal of hope. Hope for a better future. Hope for the war to end. Faith in the hearts of most men. She had spent time with the Vincanans. She knew they were not all evil. Certainly that was not the case for those from Tenoch. Both sides could be allies. There did not have to be this war!

  As such, the wedding was necessary, even if it caused Rosalynne and Ulric pain. And what of Marcellus? What if there was someone who had caught his eye? He was a handsome man. Even Vivian had noticed that with his dark curly hair and dark eyes. His eyes were most expressive, and she could read him fairly well, or so she thought.

  For a moment, for one stupid moment, Vivian again wished she had been first, that she had the crown and the responsibility to marry for the sake of Tenoch Proper, that she would be the one to wed Marcellus. It was absurd and weak and foolish, but the thought had entered her head, and now, she could not unthank it, and it plagued her as she pushed her legs to churn farther, faster, harder.

  Up ahead, she spotted shadows, and she slowed down. Near a small cluster of trees, there were two forms. She could not make out what they were saying, if they were indeed speaking, and then she heard the clang of metal against metal.

  They were two warriors, skipped ones at that, and she could not walk away. Curious, she inched closer and closer, keeping low to the ground, moving from shrub to bush, hiding within the underbrush.

  Who were they? They were fighting hard, fighting to kill, just the two of them. A duel perhaps? But who?

  Dawn was approaching slowly, which meant she could see a bit more, but that also meant that it would be possible for either of them to see her should they look in her direction, but they were far too intent on their battle, their fighting, their mini war reduced down to just two persons.

  A terrible thought came to her. What if it were Marcellus and Ulric? Fighting for Rosalynne’s hand?

  And then the sunlight glinted against one of the man’s heads, his curly dark hair. Marcellus was one of the duelists!

  But the other… Vivian squinted and then clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp.

  There were two Vincanans battling each other.

  Father and son.

  77

  Prince Marcellus Gallus

  When Marcellus reached Rosalynne’s bedchambers, there had only been three guards
out front. Marcellus had tried to reason with them by pointing out that he was not holding his sword, but they did not believe him or that his intentions were honorable. While he supposed he could understand that, had even expected it, he hated that he had to fight them. As best as he could, he strove to knock them out instead of killing them, and he forced his way into her chambers only to realize she was not there, merely a frightened maid who nearly fainted at the sight of him. Wordlessly, he slipped back out and headed away from her bedchambers, trying to find her somewhere else within the maze of the keep. Eventually, he double-backed toward her bedchambers. Despite his providing erroneous information to his father, the other Vincanans were gathering and pushing back against the knights guarding the bedchambers.

  Marcellus knew Rosalynne was not inside, but that was when he spied his father at the forefront, and he knew he had no choice but to fight alongside him. Still, he strove to render his enemies unconscious. After all, he sought to marry Rosalynne, to end this madness, to stop the war. Why fight this last, pointless battle?

  Eventually, despite Marcellus aiming to render unconscious or merely knock back instead of kill, the Vincanans forced their way into Rosalynne’s bedchambers. Thankfully, the maid was not in sight, perhaps having located a suitable hiding spot.

  Several rushed out to the balcony. Marcellus winced at the sight of the broken balcony door. That had not been the case earlier. Far below was a woman, clearly dead.

  “Is that the queen?” Flavius shouted to the man beside the woman.

  The man shook his head, but from this distance, it was impossible to say.

  The king pointed to the vines, grabbed one and descended. Marcellus and a few others did likewise.

  “She’s not the queen,” the king said, his tone full of annoyance.

  Marcellus glanced over to spy the Vincanan standing just behind his father and recognized him as one of the guards who had accompanied Marcellus and Rufus. Although Marcellus longed to run the man through, but the prince had other matters to attend to.

  “We can’t continue on like this,” Marcellus hissed. “We don’t know where she is—”

  “Is your blade even wet, boy?” his father snarled.

  Marcellus merely stood there, unfazed. “She’s not there. She could be anywhere within the castle, or maybe she even is not in the castle. We do not know.”

  “We…” The king eyed the man, who backed away.

  “There they are! The king! The prince! Kill them!”

  Knights and guards appeared above the Vincanans, on the balcony. All of the Vincanans had made it down with the rest of them, and Marcellus led the charge to the tall tree near the castle walls. They climbed up to the alure and jumped over the other side of the wall walk.

  It was a wild run, a race to dodge arrows, but Marcellus noticed that his father was not racing as swiftly as the others. In fact, he was merely walking, strolling, as if no arrow could possibly touch him.

  Marcellus headed toward his father, eyeing him critically. His father was not wounded, but his sword was covered in blood all the way up to the hilt.

  Once they approached a small cluster of trees, his father stopped entirely, eyeing Marcellus. The prince glanced around uneasily. Not one other Vincanan was near them. No one could witness this exchange.

  Or words or blades.

  “You betrayed me for the last time, boy,” his father hissed. “You think I do not know what you did?”

  “And what did I do?” Marcellus asked idly. “I am not like you. I am not willing to sacrifice a life for the sake of your vision for the world. If that makes me weak, so be it, but—”

  “If you had the heart and soul and spirit of a warrior, your best friend would still be alive. Does this truly go back to Rufus? You have no idea the life I wished for you, a life you toss aside—”

  “You are blind by greed, Father.”

  “I am not your father,” Antonius spat out. “If you were my flesh and blood, you would have not relented. You would have killed every last knight and guard from Tenoch and not blinked an eye. You would have been begging me to allow you to be the one to execute Rosalynne Rivera and Sabine Grantham as well, but no. You are a coward, a man of—”

  “A man of peace!” Marcellus burst out even as he brought up his sword. “A man who would rather have peace than war. A man who chooses hope and faith that humans can be good and kind and decent to one another.”

  “You are naïve beyond measure, boy! Do you mean to say… You sought Rosalynne inside the keep, did you not? But you did not mean to kill her, did you? No, you sought another path.”

  “Would marriage have been so wrong?”

  “When it means defeat, then yes,” the king snarled, and he launched forward in a dizzying attack that had Marcellus backing away, struggling to fight back, unable to find purchase or to even have his feet planted.

  But he thought of Vivian, who came to their camp on the chance that he would agree to marry her sister even though she knew her face was familiar to them. She knew the risks, and she accepted them. If he died, she would die as well. He thought of her being raised a princess and somehow ending up in Vincana, but had she wilted? No, she had grown roots even, had adapted, had learned enough of their weaponry skill to be able to survive in battle against Vincanans who meant to kill her. She was a fighter.

  And so was he.

  Marcellus parried and counterstruck. The king grunted from the force of Marcellus’ onslaught, but that was merely the beginning. Ever since Marcellus had learned what the king had done, Marcellus had known it would one day come to this, that he would have to face his father on the battlefield.

  His father. Had he spoken truly when he said that Marcellus was not his son? Or was he merely casting aside his flesh and blood because Marcellus was that much of a disappointment to him?

  Fury laced through Marcellus, and he turned over his blade to the Fates, allowing either Life or Death or Peace or Chaos to take over, and one or more of them did, his body no longer his own, his arm and the sword one, and he drove his father back until his spine slammed against a tree, and then he went to drive his sword through his father, but his father sidestepped the blade. The sword plunged into the tree where the man had been, and Marcellus felt the kiss of his father’s blade in his side.

  Just like that, the Fate left Marcellus, abandoning him, but Marcellus was not ready to die nor to give up. He truly did seek peace and had hope for the future, and he jerked to the side so that the blade did not strike a killing blow.

  Their swords pressed together tightly, their bodies close together, and Marcellus saw the hatred burning in his father’s eyes.

  Marcellus jerked his blade back, brought his sword down, leaving himself defenseless, or so his father would think, and indeed, that was what the king reacted toward, but Marcellus had his own attack in mind. Knowing how his father liked to end his enemies, up close and personal, with this sword shoved all the way through them if possible, Marcellus shifted out of the way while doing what his father sought to do to him but failed.

  His father gasped, muttering a curse as Marcellus forced his father to the ground.

  “Peace has won this day,” Marcellus said bitterly. “War is not the victor this day.”

  “You… aren’t…”

  Marcellus jerked his sword free, and his father managed no other words.

  The King of Vincana was dead.

  78

  Alchemist Tatum Hill

  The alchemist had known precisely what had happened when she woke from that nightmare. Still, she called for a guard or a maid and had them bring Saxa Busch to her. She would’ve preferred Isabel Faure, but she would not take the healer with magic away from those who needed it far more than her.

  Although Tatum had felt rather like she might need the aid of magic. She had slipped in and out of consciousness as Saxa arrived, not alone, but Tatum’s eyes had shut, and she could not see anything but blackness, and then a light. She saw a light despite her cl
osed eyelids, and when she next drew a breath, she felt blinding pain and then nothing. No ailments, no pain, nothing at all. Her heart was beating strong and furiously again, which forced her to realize that since she woke from the nightmare, her heart had been beating slower and slower.

  “You almost died,” Saxa had admonished her. “You know Isabel is our best healer. At least I had the sense to bring her.”

  Tatum stared at Isabel. The woman still hardly spoke a word at all, but beneath her eyes were dark. It was as if a shadow crossed over her face, and she was shrinking away, shriveling into herself. Was her magic stripping her own life away? Was she giving of her essence so that others might live?

  Tatum wanted to ask, but Saxa was forcing her to drink, and Tatum slept and slept and slept.

  Days passed before she woke, and she was in her bed but with fresh blankets and changed into a new simple green dress. There was a tray of food on the table beside the bed, and she ate the cold sustenance and then promptly went back to sleep.

  When she woke again, Tatum did not wish to get out of bed. She did not want to do anything. A maid entered the room sometime later and washed her, asked if she wished for a new dress, to which Tatum shrugged. Everything seemed so utterly pointless now. Her husband was dead. She had lost the babe. Not even Isabel had been able to save the child. Despite her best efforts, it seemed the curse had come to take away all of the good parts of her life, and she dared not talk to the maid, lest the curse think the maid a friend and kill her off too.

  What of Edmund? Would he be the next to fall?

  The maid left then. Tatum thought perhaps she had asked Tatum about this or that, but Tatum hadn’t been listening. She merely sat in a chair positioned so she could look out the window.

  When the Vincanans came and attacked, Tatum could not even rouse herself into action then. She could not bring herself to make a single potion or to help the healers. A darkness was swallowing her up, and she could not will herself to move, to eat, to lift a finger for herself.