by Cara Witter
Marcas drew in a deep breath to steady himself—piss scent be damned—and looked into the cell just as the girl let out another loud shriek.
The torchlight in the hallway behind him allowed him to see the small room clearly enough. A child’s bed in the far corner, with a thick blanket wadded up on one end. A chamber pot in the other corner. A cloth doll on the ground beside a pile of books whose pages had been ripped to shreds just last month.
And a girl with long red hair huddled in the center of the room, her small, pale hands in front of her face, ripped pieces of paper littering the ground around her like patches of dirty snow.
The lady Daniella, only eleven years old. Nearing twelve now, Marcas reminded himself. Almost the age of Marcas’s youngest. Not tucked away in some country estate to recover from illness, as the populace thought, but imprisoned here to protect her from herself.
And the Lord General from her.
In between those piercing cries, she babbled to herself, nonsense words and sounds like an infant might make, which were almost more difficult to hear. Marcas remembered well the girl who he’d been tasked to bring into the dungeon ten months ago—crying then, too, but also pleading, begging for her governess, promising that whatever she’d done to make her father mad, she wouldn’t do it again.
Fortunately, Lord General Diamis had prepared Marcas beforehand that she’d beg, that she’d say anything which might gain her enough sympathy to be released. Or rather, that the blood mage controlling her would make her do those things. For that was what Marcas had to remind himself every day—this wasn’t a little girl in there, but the shell of a little girl being controlled by the vilest of magics in an attempt to hurt her father. All of this even now, all the hysterics and seeming madness, was merely a trick by the blood mage to get them to set her free, where she would do the mage’s dark will.
Or perhaps it was all just a way to torture the Lord General further. Diamis had been very vocal about his determination to eradicate blood magic and those who practiced it. It was his faith in the Lord General’s determination that allowed Marcas to continue with this assignment, day after brutal day. That, and the hope that the Lord General would be able to track down the mage that had corrupted his child and make him pay. And the even greater hope that after all this time, the Lady Daniella was still in there somewhere to save.
Seeing her there, rocking back and forth . . . the latter was difficult to imagine.
“Go on, Sten,” Marcas said quietly. “Give your father my regards.”
Sten nodded shakily and pressed a hand to his forehead.
Marcas took a step back. A long trail of blood had started dripping from Sten’s nose. The young guard wiped at it and stared, blinking, at the red on his fingertips.
“I’m sorry, I must’ve . . .” he trailed off, uncertain. Marcas’s stomach turned—not at the sight of blood, but at a growing unease becoming a spike of fear. The headaches, a sudden bloody nose for no reason . . .
The girl in the cell let out a howl, scraping her fingers across the stone floor, scattering bits of paper. Pain ripped through Marcas’s head, as if her fingers scraped across the inside of his skull.
Marcas stumbled back with a curse, bracing himself against the slick stone of the hallway wall. Sten lurched against the wall, too, crying out.
The sensation passed as quickly as it had come, though he felt a warmth running down his neck. He pressed his fingers to it, and they were as red as Sten’s.
Blood was trickling out from his ear.
Marcas swore again, his hand instinctively going to the sword at his side. Were they under attack? Was someone trying to get to the princess? He’d heard of poisons that could be spread in the air, which could have effects like these. It couldn’t be blood magic; Marcas was extremely careful with his blood, and his men were, too. There was no way someone had gotten hold of blood from all of them.
He looked in on the girl once more. She was shaking now and crying softly. Was she feeling the headaches too? Marcas couldn’t tell. All he knew was that his job was to keep the girl locked away and safe. Safe from herself—under constant watch so the blood mage controlling her couldn’t make her hurt herself—and safe from anyone who would try to come from the outside.
And he wasn’t about to let either the Lord General or Daniella—whatever might be left of Daniella—down.
“Sten, watch her. I’ll send Bartek to get the Lord General.”
Sten nodded, though his eyes kept flicking nervously to Marcas’s ear.
Marcas ran back to the dungeon entrance, shoving the door open. “Bartek!”
The lieutenant jumped to his feet and swayed with the sudden motion. Blood dripped from his nose as well, and his eyes were wide. Marcas looked around the small entryway, looked up the stone stairs leading into the rest of the castle, but found no one there doing any kind of Vorgalian magic or releasing a deadly potion.
“Bartek, go get Lord General Diamis immediately. Tell him that—”
Marcas’s words were cut off by a scream louder than any of the others, a girl’s scream that bounced around in his head like it was trapped there. Marcas tasted blood on his lips, in his throat. Bartek fell forward to his hands and knees, coughing blood onto the floor.
Marcas stumbled back toward the dungeon cell, toward the girl. He could get her out, get her away from this attack, whatever it was. Even blood magic-controlled, she was still a small child and wouldn’t be able to overpower him in the time it would take him to get her to Diamis.
He didn’t make it halfway down the hall before a searing, ripping sensation throughout his body sent him to the ground. He cried out, the pain more intense than any he’d felt in his life, terror washing through him deeper than he’d felt on any battlefield.
He lifted his head in time to see young Sten collapse as a cloud of red mist burst from his body, pouring from his mouth and eyes and ears and even his skin itself.
Marcas gagged, choking on his own blood, weeping tears of it, watching it pool beneath him on the ground.
The last sound he heard was the soft whimper of a child.
One
Fourteen Years Later
Saara—Chosen of Nerendal, new queen of Tirostaar—wasn’t in the throne room when Kenton came looking for her, but the godstone was. The stone pulsed from its pedestal. Fire swirled in its depths—hungry golden flames—and Kenton found it difficult to pull his eyes away. Despite the many years he had spent poring over the Banishment Chronicle, seeking out the chosen that he knew must exist, he never truly considered the jewels themselves as anything more than a goal to be obtained. The means of stopping Diamis.
Kenton couldn’t touch the stone—that privilege rested with Saara, the bearer of Nerendal. Yet here in its presence, he saw that it was more than the Chronicle could ever convey, more than he would have ever believed.
It lived. Nerendal himself was encased within the stone, a concept familiar as breathing to him, but which within the last few days had become undeniably new. Kenton thought his belief in the gods, in the truth of the Chronicle, had been strong before—after all, he’d been leading this group through battles of magic and daring castle escapes for this very purpose. But now everything was different. Solid. The history was tangible in a way that it never could have been from maps and words on paper, and a small part of Kenton wished he could feel what Saara must have at touching the Sunstone, at claiming and being claimed by her god.
Of course, he didn’t want the death that would rapidly follow if he did so.
“I find myself coming in to stare at him quite often,” remarked an accented voice from behind him.
He turned, a little unnerved by the fact that he hadn’t heard Saara approach. The soft soles of Tirostaari shoes allowed for more natural stealth than he was accustomed to. She was dressed in loose red pants, over which draped a tan silk robe tied tigh
tly around her small waist. Her soft leather boots were dyed the same shade of tan and laced up to her knees. On the mainland, the clothes would have been a man’s outfit, but even with her dark hair pinned up, Saara was incapable of looking like a man.
“I can understand why,” Kenton said. “It’s not exactly what I expected.”
“I don’t think any of the bearers are what you expected either. Such are the ways of the gods, I suppose.”
He smiled and gestured to the stone. “Yet look what you all have accomplished.”
Saara smiled and stepped up beside him. Tiny licks of flame ran over her hands; rather than hiding her power, Kenton had noticed her using it often since she’d taken the throne. A reminder, he supposed, to anyone who might be questioning her right to rule.
Kenton cleared his throat. He’d come here for a purpose, not to gawk at the stone. “Have you spoken to Talia yet about being your steward? Ruling in your absence?”
Saara’s face, momentarily lightened by her brief smile, returned instantly to its usual hard expression. “No. I can’t leave so soon after banishing my aunt. You and the others are all free to go, but I’ll have to stay.”
Kenton’s chest tightened. “You know the fight isn’t over. Diamis may not be threatening you at this moment, but when he finishes with Mortiche, he’ll come for you. And if he releases Maldorath—”
“I know,” Saara said. “And I’m willing to meet you in Peldenar when the others have their gods. Peldenar is on the coast—you can send me word when you have them. We’ll arrange a meeting place before you leave, so we don’t have to trust it to letters.”
“Saara,” Kenton said. “We need you. The other bearers need you. The gods called you together because they knew we’d be stronger as a team, and there’s so much work left to do.”
Saara shook her head. “I’m Nerendal’s bearer. Chosen, as you yourself admitted, to claim the godstone and rule Tirostaar as her queen. Not chosen to roam the Five Lands looking for missing gods.” She waved a hand at him dismissively. “The Four only know how long it will take you to find them.”
“Which is why we need your help. Come eat with us. Look your friends in the eyes. Every one of them helped you claim that jewel.” Kenton gestured toward the stone, his eyes catching on its glimmering flame again. “You owe them the same. And you owe your people freedom from the bloody reign of Maldorath that will come down on you if you refuse to help us.”
“I know.” Saara lips tightened. “But my first concern is for Tirostaar.”
Kenton tried to control his anger. “And the rest of the world can rot, as long as you get to play queen?”
Saara’s nostrils flared and the flames on her hands grew brighter. She took a few steps toward him, and he thought she might slap him, but the slap never came. Her chin tilted upward; she eyed him defiantly. “I’ve made my decision.”
Kenton stared, not at Saara the bearer of Nerendal, but at the bloody queen of Tirostaar. He remembered the anger in her eyes, reflecting the coals of the fire, the night he’d told them all that they’d been chosen by their gods. The eager way she’d agreed with him that they had to start in Tirostaar.
Saara had never wanted to help them. She’d only wanted to be queen. He should have realized this all along.
“Wonderful.” He turned around to walk out of her throne room, too angry to think now of where they might meet.
“Kenton,” Saara said.
He turned on his heels, glaring at her.
“Thank you,” she said. “For telling me who I am. For helping me take the throne. Light be with you all.”
Kenton’s blood burned under his skin. He desperately wanted to yell out every curse he knew, to punch something. Anything. Perhaps the Sunstone, swirling placidly on its pedestal.
He glared at the god. “Thank you,” he muttered, “for nothing.” Then he turned, leaving the stone to its own pulsing contemplation.
Kenton wasn’t feeling any better about the situation as he walked onto the balcony where dinner was to be held. A couple of hours spent mulling over the argument had, in fact, only increased his bitterness towards Saara. Sure, she had power and responsibilities now beyond what any of them had left behind. But her willingness to throw the rest of them—the rest of the world—to the wolves was colder than he’d thought her capable. Everything they had gone through, everything they had suffered, had been for far more than Saara’s throne.
At the center of the balcony, a rich assortment of food had been laid out, many items that Kenton recognized from the few days he had been dining in Tir Neren. One platter of beef in particular brought back memories of mouthwatering flavor, followed later that night by the sensation that his guts were being pulled with tongs through a smithy’s furnace. He decided to avoid that particular dish. The sharp scent of spice and roasted meat mingled with the aroma of the balcony’s huge flowers.
Tir Neren was beautiful, he couldn’t deny it. But they were here on business, not pleasure, and their business was now in moving on.
Saara would not make this all for nothing.
In his opinion, hog-tying Saara and dragging her onto the ship didn’t sound all that bad. That image brought a small smile to his face as he reached the edge of the balcony. The air was yet too warm for his comfort, although the blazing heat of midday had receded somewhat. The sun was low in the sky, but still bright enough to make the light-globes, which hung from poles at intervals, little more than decorations.
He needed to talk to Perchaya, get her opinion on the matter. He’d grown used to being with her nearly every hour of the day, but these last days things had been easier, and she’d been occupied, mostly with Daniella. After they’d taken the stone there had been no more reason for Perchaya and Kenton to share a room, and Perchaya had moved into one of her own, but he’d found himself missing her—even the steadiness of her breathing helped calm him. She always helped him to solidify his thoughts, as well as providing a rational perspective that had proved invaluable when dealing with all the strong personalities he’d been cursed with on this expedition.
As if she’d been summoned by his thoughts, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to find Perchaya standing there in a Tirostaari outfit similar to Saara’s, with loose pants and a tunic, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders. Her hands were covered in thin lace gloves with a silk inlay concealing the Drim ring she wore and couldn’t take off. She was in far less danger here in Tirostaar of having her identity revealed—especially with Saara as queen—but Kenton was glad she was still taking precautions.
“All right,” she said. “What’s happened? You have that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“Like you want to wring a few necks, but you don’t know what you’d do with the bodies.”
Kenton smiled. “Descriptive.”
“It’s the same look you had when Nikaenor spilled stew on your maps, or when Daniella . . . well, did pretty much anything. What happened?” She looked up at him pointedly. The bruise on her cheek was still visible, although he was glad to see that it looked to be healing well. Unlike the guard who’d inflicted it, Perchaya hadn’t sustained more . . . grotesque injuries.
“Saara refuses to come with us. She won’t leave Tir Neren.” He kept his voice low, knowing that while he couldn’t speak Tirostaari, there was a good chance some of the servants lurking nearby spoke Sevairnese.
Perchaya frowned. “Doesn’t she realize we need her?”
“Yes, she knows we need to get the jewels together. She doesn’t care. She’s got her power now, and the rest of the world can deal with Diamis themselves.” He sighed. He was being technically unfair. “She has magnanimously agreed to meet us when we’re ready to return to Peldenar to take the stones to Maldorath’s seal. But not before.”
Perchaya scrubbed at her forehead. “I was worried about that. I understand what she�
�s thinking. It would be hard for her to leave now. It’s a lot of responsibility all at once.”
“Talia would rule in her stead. People would accept her, better than Saara, even.”
“That’s probably what Saara’s afraid of. Talia supports her now, but after she gets comfortable ruling . . .”
Kenton nodded. Perchaya had a point, but he wouldn’t concede that Saara did. “Instead, she’ll play politics and create a nice, stable country just in time for Maldorath to bleed it dry. Literally.”
“I know. I agree with you. There has to be some way to convince her of how important the remainder of the journey is. For Tirostaar, if nothing else.”
Kenton rolled his eyes. “Convince her? While we’re at it, let’s convince Diamis to give up.”
Perchaya’s eyes danced at him. “So your alternate plan would be something along the lines of dragging her bound and gagged back to the mainland?”
Kenton smiled again, despite himself. “Well, I hadn’t thought of the gag, but now that you mention it . . .”
Perchaya put a hand on his arm. “We’ll be all right. Saara can stay here, and as long as she’s willing to meet us in Peldenar when we’re ready, we can continue without her.”
It sounded more reasonable when Perchaya said it. And she was right. Saara couldn’t be allowed to stop them. They would continue.
“I just hope the others see it that way,” he said. “It’s them Saara is really betraying.”
Perchaya nodded. “I’ll talk to them. We need to begin preparations to leave for the mainland anyway.”
But as Kenton watched her go, he realized there was one more conversation he needed to have first.
