The Complete Duology

by M H Woodscourt

  Kovien shook his head. “Oh, Gwynter. You sound so certain of your course. So righteous. But I feel the same. Do you not see? Belief in something is not enough. There are too many paths one might take. This world is broken. Broken, fragmented. I mean to repair that once and forever.”

  “By murdering all life?” Gwynter’s voice flickered with heat.

  “It is the only course that ends the turmoil, Gwynter. No other way has healed the broken places. Nothing else will last. We’ve run out of time, Gwynter. The world has executed your god! Can you justify that? No, don’t try. I know the arguments of your faith; your tenets of forgiveness and second chances. But this world has been given them and remains yet corrupt. Cruel.”

  Gwynter’s eyes burned. “You speak of these things as though you have committed no vile deeds, but who has enacted them most?”

  “I confess,” said Kovien, raising his voice as a thrill ran through him, “I have become the worst of all offenders. But that was the point, Gwynter. I must press the world a last time, and should it fall, then there was no hope at all.”

  “But I won’t let it fall.” The Winter King nudged his unicorn forward, casting light before him, growing nearer and nearer to Kovien’s comfortable darkness.

  The Crow King sighed. “This vision is not ended, Gwynter, but only begun. Behold!”

  The ground gave way to swelling tides of deep red stretching on forever. A faint light illuminated the ocean of blood, allowing Gwynter to survey the awful sight as both unicorns remained standing, hooves hovering above the sea. Aluem sounded a mournful bay and staggered.

  “All the world is bathed in countless gallons of blood, Gwynter,” said Kovien. “This is the world’s truest history. Smell it. Taste the iron upon your tongue. See how it weakens your unicorn. The innocent suffer most from such evil; yet evil thrives, thrives! The very instrument I wield to purge this world is made from such dreadful acts as warfare and wanton violence. Only such an instrument could end the cycle, potent enough to succeed. And so, I use it.”

  “Lies,” said Gwynter, stroking Aluem’s neck. “You are deceived. This is mere illusion, supporting one aspect of life. I will grant you, Kovien, that this world is full of war and violence. Greed, hate, judgment. But there are other things, beautiful things. Light and wonder and laughter and liberty. Those are the source of healing you sought and never found, for the truth is this: You wanted a reason to destroy people. You were afraid, proud, and resentful. To destroy is easier than mending, and you chose the easiest course, as all tyrants before you have done. But let’s not pretend you’re as noble as even that makes you sound. You intend to wipe away all life from Simaerin—yet before you said you would rule it along with all other lands. Which is it, Kovien? Purging or control? And if, in your heart of hearts, the answer is the latter, who shall live under your eternal banner? Who decides? You? But by your own admission, you’re the worst of all offenders. Does that not mean you must purge yourself from the world? Are you a hero, as you claim to be, or are you the mad tyrant your actions declare? Who is the Crow King, Kovien? What is your purpose?”

  Kovien stared, breath laboring as his heart raced. Who was this child to question his calling? Who was Gwynter ren Terare ren Wintervale but a youthful usurper who would claim the world for himself? A mere human boy. A greedy, clutching monster.

  “Hypocrite!” He stabbed a finger toward Gwynter. “You want the throne for yourself! You ride against me to steal my kingdom and my Crown!”

  Gwynter lifted his chin as his eyes stormed on. “I cannot argue with a madman. Call me what you will. Say what you want. Truth does not bend or mold itself to the will of Man or Ilidreth, and the truth remains this: Any man who tramples and destroys the freedom of another for his own gain is a tyrant. And tyrants, no matter their creed, are wrong. You are wrong, Kovien Crow-King. The voice you heed is wrong, your calling is wrong, your actions are wrong. Nothing, not tantrum, or sword, or enchanted Crown, can alter that.”

  Kovien’s vision flamed red. He caught up his sword and charged Gwynter, screaming. The Winter King lifted his arm and deflected his blow with ease, forced him back, and parried with a swing of his own. Kovien barely blocked. He must calm down. Must be calm. Be calm.

  He was right. This was the only path he could take. The only one to make a difference. He must cut Gwynter down, but how? The boy remained untouchable. King Roth’s ancient oath saw to that. The line of Wintervale would not fail by the hand of any living creature. Not man or beast. Gwynter alone could take his own life, or natural sickness steal his breath, or old age devour him.

  The Fiend rounded Aluem, but the white unicorn danced away as Gwyn blocked another strike. Swords clashed, forward. Up. Side. Block. Metal rang in the iron-scented air. Unicorns pranced and glided around one another, letting their riders engage, throwing their heavy swords to hack and skewer. It was a futile effort; they both knew it. Yet anger drove them on. Kovien could feel the hum of Gwynter’s wrath, as wild and venomous as his own.

  It made sense. Kovien had executed Lawen. His goal had been to push Gwynter into utter despair—not to drive him to self-destruction, as Bened Arnnor had suspected. If it had, so be it. But Kovien had hoped for more, much more. His heart lurched.

  “Join me, Gwynter!” he cried as he remembered his desire. His loneliness atop the world.

  The young man started and drew back, lowering his sword a little. His brows drew together and through his panting breath, he growled the question: “What?”

  “Join me, Gwynter,” he repeated, all his anger bleeding away as he recalled the fondness he had for this human child. He remembered well the day Gwynter ren Wintervale was born. Snow fell that day, though the fields still glistened with golden wheat and the trees burst with autumn’s apples.

  Far away in Crowwell, Kovien had fallen where he walked, strength leeched in a single moment as he heard the cry of an infant. He understood at once. For two centuries he had kept the line of Wintervale under his watch, but it seemed at last to fade away on its own. To die off naturally. He had let it go gladly.

  But the Weave was stronger than he knew, and it seeped into a mother’s womb to cocoon her unborn child, to douse him in magic but keep him concealed until he came into the world.

  Trembling, Kovien had taken the form of a crow and flown for Mount Vinwen and the waling cries of the mage child he couldn’t slay. He had entered that tiny manor and gazed upon the face of beautiful innocence glowing with the Weave’s protections. Untouchable. Unattainable. So nearly perfect.

  Something within Kovien had stirred as the infant boy opened his teary eyes and gazed into the Crow King’s face.

  Guilt.

  Guilt for all he had done. Anguish for all he had lost. Loneliness for what could never be returned.

  In that moment, Kovien loved and hated the boy named Gwynter. He fled; flew far away and found himself standing in the crumbling halls of Shaeswéath, his childhood home. He climbed the stairs of yesteryear and entered the chamber where his mother lay sleeping. Dear, beautiful Mother. Ageless and safe. Not dead, not alive. He knelt before the high bed and wept.

  Wept.

  He had never done so before, not after he had resolved to end the world’s madness. And never again since the day the Winter King was born. But the fondness and loathing of Gwynter had endured, growing as he took the boy under his banner and made him his general. He knew then what would happen. Knew this rebellion would spring up to thwart him. Knew Gwynter might even succeed.

  Perhaps a piece of him welcomed it. An end. An answer, though it wasn’t one he relished.

  But the strongest part of Kovien would never bow or bend to this human. Gwynter was no longer the pure and innocent babe wailing with the wonder of life. He had become a man, grown, hardened. Pure enough to ride a white unicorn, but blemished enough to hate. A flawed creature, inherently wicked. Defiled by life’s ceaseless barrage. Mortal.

  Gwynter would die. If not in war, still someday. And Kovien would live on
, for the Crown sustained him, and even when his Ilidreth kin were long deceased, he would remain.

  “Kovien,” said Gwynter, recalling him to the present. The vision of blood. His enemy upon the white unicorn. The Winter King regarded him with such coldness, such anger. His eyes thundered. “I will not join you in the destruction of all I hold sacred. Once, you made me serve you out of fear, but never again for any reason. Nothing could compel me otherwise.”

  The certainty. The disgust. Kovien drank them in, letting them spark his resolve. “Ah, Gwynter. Few things have moved me as you do. Moved to fury and even to compassion. You’re a rare man. A rare human. My father would have cared for you very much, I think.” He sighed softly. “It is his oath which has spared you time and again. I could plunge my sword into your chest, and draw your lifeblood, yet something—some magic or device—would spare you in your final moment.” With a wave of his hand, the bloody ocean fell away, and sunshine returned, bright and glorious. A cool breeze played with Kovien’s hair. The world had returned to its natural, deceitful beauty.

  A new figure stood upon the highway, clothed in tatters, his hair a tangle creeping down his back like vines. Kovien smiled. “Ah, Kive. Come to your master.”

  The pitiful creature cowered, hovering between Gwynter and Kovien, gnawing on his finger.

  Kovien frowned. “Kive. Come.”

  Kive whimpered and took a step toward him.

  “Kive,” said Gwynter in a gentle, affectionate murmur.

  Kovien’s heart throbbed to hear it. Why? Why would Gwynter speak so kindly to such a wretch as Kive? Broken, maddened, filthy. What grace belonged to the princely figure had long been destroyed. Kovien had thrived on shattering him, turning him into the miserable beast he was now, ruining whatever goodness, whatever nobility had existed. What could Gwynter possibly find to treasure in such a creature?

  “Kive,” Kovien said again. Kive bowed beneath his tone as one would beneath a cracking whip. The fallen fae gingerly approached, hands wringing, eyes lowered as they should be.

  He halted just beyond Kovien’s reach, waiting, breathless.

  “You’ve angered me, Kive,” said the Crow King calmly.

  The creature flinched. “Forgive me, Master. Forgive Kive.”

  “Perhaps this time I won’t. You lingered with Gwynter. Why should I forgive your betrayal?”

  Kive’s lip trembled. “But Shiny must stay safe.”

  “Kive,” called Gwynter, as Aluem took several steps closer. “Come away from him. He’s not your master any longer. Come to Shiny and I will keep you safe.”

  “Shiny said to stay in the trees,” Kive mumbled, as though he couldn’t hear Gwynter’s voice, “but I saw Master and I came. I came, Master.”

  Revulsion shivered through Kovien’s frame as he stretched out his hand. “Well done, Kive. Come closer.”

  The fae slinked nearer, furtive, frightened.

  Kovien rested a hand on Kive’s head, another thrill of disgust running through him as it always did. He had loved crushing Kive’s spirit, but his handiwork sickened him just the same. To reduce an ethereal creature into something so ugly, so primal, required the worst tactics Kovien had ever employed. Even now it unsettled him to think of them.

  Kive drew nearer still, hungry to be caressed by his master, to feel some sense of affection—though Kovien offered none.

  “Oh, Kive,” moaned Gwynter, and Kovien looked up to drink in the sorrow and pity on the Winter King’s face.

  “He is mine, Gwynter. I made him into what he is, and he shall always serve me.”

  Gwynter looked up and caught Kovien’s eyes to hold them fast. “No, Kovien. He isn’t.”

  Kovien realized his mistake. Understood Gwynter’s plan. But Kive was already springing at him, snatching his Crown, wrenching it from his head as they tumbled together from the Fiend’s back. Kovien cried out as Kive leapt again to his feet and danced away.

  “Give it to me, Kive! Return the Crown to your master!”

  Kive sprinted to Gwynter’s side, heedless, almost jubilant. “Shiny, do you see? See? Kive got the Crown! I took it from the Crow! I took it!”

  Gwynter reached out. “Give it to me, Kive. Hurry.”

  “Don’t touch it,” Kovien warned. “It will claim your life, Gwynter. You won’t die, but it will be your undoing. You’re only a human.”

  Gwynter considered him for a heartbeat. He looked at the Crown, caught the corner of his tattered cloak, and wrapped it around his hand before he accepted the Crown from Kive. Innocent, broken Kive, who gave it willingly to Gwynter, betraying Kovien. Betraying his kin.

  As Gwynter hoisted the Crown before him, expression troubled, Kovien unsheathed his second dagger and flung it hard at Kive’s back. Unsuspecting, joyous Kive. Traitorous wretch. Fallen brother.

  The Weave blocked him. The dagger shattered against the very air before Kive’s exposed back, and the fallen fae remained unscathed. Kovien sobbed as he found Gwynter’s eyes pinned on him.

  “You will take no more from me,” said the Winter King with such fervor, Kovien flinched back. Crownless, he sat upon the ground and waited. Wondered. What would the Crown do? What would become of Gwynter, who thought he was safe from its clutches by a mere tangible bit of cloth? Kovien knew better. The Crown of the Blighted was more powerful than any mage, even one of the Wintervale line. Only an oath sealed with blood protected Gwynter—and then, only from death itself. Nothing else. The Crown knew other ways to claim a life.

  It hummed, even as Kovien smiled and leaned forward to watch. Darkness streamed from its spires like threads of the Weave painted black. Gwynter’s eyes dropped to behold the sight, and he gasped and tried to fling the Crown away—much too late to escape. The Crown would claim him. It always did.

  Chapter 41

  A force seized Gwyn, unseen, clutching. His lungs constricted as his body convulsed.

  The Crown!

  He tried to throw it away, tried to escape its pull, but his limbs refused to obey. He buckled against Aluem as magic surged through him, cold as ice, burning like fire. His vision blackened. Scent and sound vanished. The last noise he heard was of Aluem calling out to him, but a torrent of hollow despair cut the unicorn off.

  It swallowed him up, poured into him like a raging flood, filled every thought and feeling until he screamed beneath its crushing weight.

  The strength of the Crown’s power, far superior to his magery, would break him. He couldn’t resist. Couldn’t fight. He would fail and go mad.

  Afallon!

  The single word rang through his mind, faraway, as he tumbled. Down. Down. Into the growing abyss of his soul.

  But no. In the depths where all should be dark, a light burned before him. His light. Not magery or the Weave, for neither could resist the Blight.

  Something else. Something distinctly human.

  Choice. A thrill rushed through him. The freedom to choose either to remain in this unyielding, vast desolation, or not to remain. To return to life, with its horrors, its sorrows, its pain. And he knew already what he would choose: Liberty.

  Gwyn reached out, not with hands, but with his heart. He took the light into himself, let it burn brighter and brighter, until it could chase away all the hopelessness.

  His eyes opened as sound tore through his ears. The fragrance of loam, greenery, blossoms, attacked his senses and made his eyes water.

  He sat up.

  “Impossible!” cried Kovien.

  The Crow King stood now where he had fallen, though Kive blocked his path to Gwyn lying in the tall grass beside the highway. In the field nearby, the unicorns danced and dove around each other, horns blazing with magic, dueling. Gwyn turned from the fight.

  Kovien gripped his sword, eyes narrowed on Gwyn. “It claimed you.”

  Gwyn hefted himself up on his elbows. His arms quavered under his weight. He gritted his teeth and shoved himself up until he sat, gasping. His bones ached with fever. He swallowed and ran a hand over his face
before he answered. “I chose not to let it.”

  “No. No.”

  Kovien charged forward, but Kive threw out his hand. “Stop, Master!”

  Kovien froze in his tracks, seized by an invisible hand. His eyes widened. “Kive, release me.”

  Kive shook his head. “No, Master.” He paused. “No, Crow. You will not hurt Shiny.”

  Kovien seemed to wrestle with himself, torn between fury written in his eyes and terror trembling on his lips. “Kive,” he gasped, forlorn.

  Kive’s shoulders hunched. “Master?”

  “Kive, let me go. Please don’t hold me captive.” The plaintive cry hung so soft, so sweet, upon the air. Gwyn shuddered at the contrast between that sound and the blazing eyes of the mad king.

  Kive whimpered and took a step forward.

  “Kive, don’t listen. He’s fooling you.” Gwyn staggered to his feet. “Kive. Look at me. Look at Shiny.”

  The fallen fae turned slowly to find Gwyn’s face. A faint smile touched Kive’s lips, but his eyes filled with tears. “Shiny! Shiny, it’s Kovien. Kovien is trapped. Do you hear him?”

  Compassion swelled in Gwyn’s heart for this wretched soul. “Kive, Kovien is no more. Here stands the Crow King only: your brother’s murderer.”

  Kive stood still, lines etched into his face. He blinked and understanding lit in his eyes. “The Crow murdered my brother?”

  Gwyn nodded. “Yes, Kive. He murdered him on an island far away, and then he took up the Crown of the Blighted and came to this land. He killed your betrothed next, and then came to Swan Castle and killed your family. He’s not your master, Kive. He’s your enemy.”

  Kive’s eyes brightened and his shoulders shook. “The Crow did this. He did this. He took them all away.” He spoke as though memory dawned, and his tone heightened as he whirled on Kovien. “Traitor!”

  “Kive, release me. I’m your master. Release me!”

  The cry of a unicorn ripped Gwyn’s eyes from the brothers, and he found the Fiend staggering away from Aluem, whose horn glistened with silver blood. The Fiend charged again, head lowered to deliver a blow of his own.