by David Estes
He gasped as strong arms clamped around his waist and picked him up, his arms still punching but connecting with nothing but empty air. “Stop!” a harsh voice hissed and he did, because one didn’t argue with the queen of the north, especially when she was one’s mother.
What have I done? Archer thought, staring down at his brother’s bloodied form. Garon’s lips and nose were bleeding, and one of his eyes was beginning to swell shut. He was crying, snot and tears mixing with the blood. Why did I do that? He’d fought his brother a thousand times, sometimes losing but usually winning, doing either with grace and honor as his parents had taught him. It was Garon who was the hothead, using dirty tactics and stomping off angrily whenever he was bested in combat.
His mother lowered him to the ground and he dropped to his knees, suddenly sapped of all energy. Though the cold snow melted through his trousers, he felt hot, as if a fire continued to burn just beneath the surface of his skin. His father had arrived at some point, his huge form hunched over Garon, inspecting his wounds. “You’ll be no worse for wear,” the large man said, helping him to a sitting position. “If anything, the black eye will improve your standing amongst your peers.”
Garon had stopped crying, touching a finger to his lips. “Really, Da?” he said. “You think so?”
Archer stared, wishing the roles were reversed. He’d gladly take a beating from Garon to erase the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Why did I get so angry? he wondered. It wasn’t like Garon hadn’t used similar tactics in battle before.
Behind him, his mother cleared her throat. He cringed, dreading seeing her piercing dark eyes and pressed lips. When he turned to face her, however, she was looking not at him but at his father, who’d twisted about to meet her gaze. And what Archer saw in both their expressions made him frown.
He saw fear.
The two brothers had been separated. Garon had refused to look at Archer as he was marched away by their mother to tend to his wounds. Somehow, even bloodied, he managed to wear smugness like a permanent mask.
To Archer’s surprise, it was his father who steered him in the other direction. Typically it was their mother who handled the discipline. As his da liked to say, “The queen could scare an ice bear into becoming a lamb.”
“Da, I—”
“Wait, son,” his father said in that quiet way of his. He led Archer forward, angling across the deserted training yard toward a far corner of the castle, where an apple tree, now stripped of leaves and fruit, stretched its branches toward the white, cloud-blanketed sky.
His father stopped in front of the tree, reaching out to place one of his huge hands on the trunk as if to steady himself. His head drooped as he stared at his feet.
Archer frowned. What is happening?
When his father turned to face him, his eyes were dark, shadowed under a broad, heavy brow. If the stories carried even a fraction of the truth, his father had once been the mightiest knight in the realm, though he never spoke of those days anymore. Archer had never seen that side of him, and he didn’t really believe such farfetched tales.
Until now.
It wasn’t just his sheer size, which Archer had always taken for granted. There was a deadly gleam in his eyes that would warn even the toughest opponent away from him, and Archer had the urge to take a step back, then another, retreating to the safety of the castle.
Da would never hurt me, would he? he wondered. The man had never so much as raised a hand against him, while his mother had been known to smack all her children when they stepped out of line.
And then the shadow was gone, replaced by that same expression he’d seen cross both his parents’ faces before. Fear with a twinge of sadness. The abrupt change was almost worse.
“I’m sorry, Da. I lost control. I’ll apologize to Garon. I’ll make it up to him. I’ll let him beat me next time. He can even bloody my nose,” Archer rambled, stopping only when his father shook his head.
“This isn’t your fault, son,” he said.
“What?” Archer didn’t understand. He’d been the one to lose his temper. He’d been the one who’d needed to be dragged off his own brother. He sucked in a sharp breath at the thought of what he might’ve done if his mother hadn’t been there to stop the fight.
“You are my son,” his father said, stepping closer. He placed a hand on Archer’s shoulder, the weight as heavy as a stone block.
“I know that,” Archer said, trying to understand why he’d stated such a simple fact at a time like this.
His father shook his head. “Yes, but you don’t understand what it means. Not truly.”
“Then tell me.”
Another shake of his father’s head. “Tell me, son, what did you feel before? When you attacked Garon.”
“Nothing. Just anger. I had him beat and he cheated. Again. I don’t know why it made me so angry this time.”
“What else?”
Archer tried to think. “I saw black and red spots. I felt hot, like there were fires burning through my blood.”
His father frowned, pursing his lips. “Did you hear anything?”
“I—what do you mean?” His father wasn’t making sense. What would he have heard?
“Like a…” His father trailed away. “Nevermind. Give me your hand. Don’t be afraid.”
Why would he be afraid? He lifted his hand and his father took it, facing his palm down. His da’s other hand extracted a small paring knife from a pocket.
“Da, what are you doing?”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes, of course, but—ow!”
The prick had been so quick he hadn’t had time to flinch away. A spot of blood welled from his skin where the knife had sliced him.
His father laughed. Actually laughed, dropping his hand. “Go get that bandaged, son. And control your temper next time. Agreed?”
Archer was so confused by the entire conversation that he could only nod, watching his father stride away toward the castle, leaving enormous footprints behind in the snow. Drops of crimson blood painted the snow at Archer’s feet.
Two weeks later
Garon’s face was healing nicely. The scabs on his lips had fallen off, leaving tiny white lines that would soon vanish. His right eye still showed a shadow of a bruise, but even that was only noticeable in direct light. In the dancing glow of the firelight, Archer could almost pretend he’d never pounded his brother into submission.
His parents had continued to act odd for a few days afterward, always seeming to be watching him with narrowed eyes and tight lips, but even that had faded. Everything was back to normal it seemed.
Even Garon had moved on, though he was slightly less eager to challenge Archer in single combat, and he occasionally flinched when Archer raised a hand, even if it was only to cover his mouth when he yawned.
As usual, Garon was eager for more stories from the greatest storyteller in the castle:
Zelda.
Their great aunt was a trollish woman with more wrinkles than a balled-up shirt, and yet somehow the twinkle in her eyes had always captivated the attention of her nieces and nephews. Besides Garon, Archer had three other siblings, two girls and another boy. With a few months still to go before his second name day, the youngest was Hank. He was as bald as an egg, though several light-colored strands of hair had recently begun growing. Evidently he was the mirror image of his grandmother on his mother’s side, Sabria, a woman who’d once been the queen under the rule of their grandfather, the Dread King of the North. The two girls were Hope and Harmony, and they were as thick as thieves, always plotting and scheming together. Like Archer, they’d already developed wide Gäric chins and broad shoulders. If he were to wrinkle up their faces, Archer suspected they’d look more like Zelda’s daughters.
Several others joined them: the two daughters of the castle mystic, Lisbeth Lorne, and her husband, the greatest swordsman in the realm, Sir David Dietrich. The Dietrich girls, as they were known, were identical twins named Liz
a and Zola who’d recently had their eighth name day. Their hair was the color of night and they bore unnaturally blue eyes that never seemed to miss a thing. Archer’s two sisters followed them around everywhere. Also present were three boys, Archer’s cousins, that belonged to Commander Christoff Metz and Archer’s Aunt Mona. Only three years separated the three boys who were all between the ages of four and six. They enjoyed many pursuits, most of which involved making enormous messes and causing their father—the cleanest man Archer had ever known—great distress. Just now, they were giggling and putting handprints on his armor as he tried to polish it to a shine.
Zelda had begun a familiar tale, all about the Horde that had descended on the Four Kingdoms fourteen years earlier, before any of them were even born. It was a long story, and by the end all four girls were asleep, along with Hank.
“I wish another Horde would come,” Garon said. “I would fight them all, and I would win.”
“Me too,” Zelda muttered. “I never knew how boring peace could be.”
Archer’s mother, who had settled into a spot on the floor, sipping a glass of wine, fired a glare at her aunt. “I wish you wouldn’t romanticize the Fall of All Things.”
“Romantacize?” Zelda said, incredulous. “Perhaps you listened to a different story. Mine was all about heads being chopped off and a battlefield dripping with blood.”
“Oh, I heard you, all right. There was glory seeping from every word.”
Zelda snorted, but offered no further argument, crunching down hard on a raw potato. As the queen liked to say, Aunt Zelda could give a goat a run for its coin when it came to what she was capable of eating and digesting, as well as the sheer quantity.
Nearby, one of the Metz boys had discovered a dustpan filled with soot shoveled from the fireplace, and he was using it as face paint while his father tried desperately to wash it off with a wet rag. Eventually the tussle resulted in the tin overturning with a poof, the gray ash covering Commander Metz’s face. He looked ready to faint. Archer’s aunt urged her husband to go get cleaned up while she attempted to wrangle the boys to the nearest wash basin.
Archer chuckled at the scene before turning back to where his brother was, as usual, pestering their father. “Da, will you tell us about your greatest battle?” Garon asked.
Their father had been silent for most of the evening, content to sit and listen. Both of Archer’s sisters were sprawled across his lap, each of their heads tucked into one of the crooks between his chest and shoulders. Now, he shifted uneasily. “My greatest battle was nothing next to your mother’s. Did I tell you about the time she defeated an—”
“Ice bear with her bare hands?” Garon said. “Yes, Da, only half a hundred times. We want a story about you.” Though Archer had voiced no request for such a story, it was true. Both he and Garon were in agreement on this point. All they knew of their father’s prowess in battle was gleaned from rumor and gossip.
“I fear I’ve forgotten them all,” he said.
“I haven’t,” Zelda said, potato juice dripping from her chin.
“I think it’s time for bed,” their mother said, clambering to her feet, scooping up Hank’s sleeping form as she rose.
Archer sighed. The same scene had been played out dozens of times before. Whenever they pushed for stories of their father, it was time for bed.
Garon’s eyes met Archer’s, and there was no animosity there. Whatever had transpired in the practice yard those two weeks ago was a distant memory now. Say something, his brother mouthed, and Archer was reminded of something they’d discussed earlier.
Archer waited several long moments, until their mother had left the room, shepherding the groggy Dietrich twins before her like a flock of sheep. This was the type of request more suited to their father—at least if they wanted to get the answer they were hoping for.
“Can we visit Uncle Bane tomorrow?” Archer asked, hating how his voice squeaked a little at the end. Lately it had been doing that whenever he was nervous.
“Ask your mother,” his father said, carrying Archer’s sisters over each shoulder like they were sacks of barley. The heaviness in his tone was much the same as if he’d said Ask the queen.
“She’ll say no,” Garon complained.
“Exactly.”
“It’s not fair,” Garon said. “Why do we always have to wait for him to come to the castle? He doesn’t live far away. You could come with us.”
“Leave your uncle alone,” their father said. “He likes his solitude this time of year. Come spring, he’ll visit us. I promise. Now get to bed. If your mother finds you still down here after she’s done with Hank, there’ll be—”
“Frozen hell to pay,” Garon muttered.
“Watch your language, son. But aye, that’s exactly what there will be.”
“We could sneak away tonight,” Garon said, when they were in bed.
The room they shared was modest, their beds close enough together that they could reach out and hit each other if the need arose. On occasion, one of them would complain about how so many rooms in the castle were empty and yet they were stuck sharing one. Neither of them really meant it, however—sometimes it was nice having company, especially when there was scheming to be done.
“Ma will have both our hides if she catches us,” Archer said. Though the fear of their mother’s wrath was a strong motivator, in truth Archer was warm and cozy beneath his thick blankets.
“We could be back before morning. She’ll never even know.” Garon’s face was illuminated by a red blade of moonslight that breached the clouds, stabbing through the uncovered window.
“Have you met our mother? No? Strong woman, big fists that are good for knocking sense into her children? She’s the queen. She knows everything.”
“Chick-en,” Garon said, breaking the insult into two distinct words.
“You know I’m not.”
“Bock bock bock…” Across the space, Garon flapped his elbows like wings as he squawked.
“Fine. Frozens gods of the north!” Archer threw back the bedsheets, cringing as the cold hit him. Garon whooped lightly and both boys tugged on their trousers, thick woolen socks, four layers of shirts beneath heavy greatcoats, knit caps with drooping ears, and gloves that made their hands look as huge as bear paws. Their boots completed the ensemble, and Archer found himself grinning now, the cold forgotten as the thrill of adventure took hold. “Ready?”
He started to stand, but Garon shoved him back onto the bed, hustling past him to the door. “Last one out the castle’s an ice cube!” he hollered.
Archer gritted his teeth and gave chase, still managing to tiptoe so his boots wouldn’t make too much noise.
He turned a corner and almost crashed into Garon’s back, pulling up just in time to stop. He was about to protest but Garon cut him off with a finger pressed to his lips. Garon pointed to a nearby door, which stood the slightest bit ajar, the telltale flicker of lanternlight dancing through the gap. Murmured voices arose, indiscernible from this distance. They would have to get closer…
Practically joined at the hip, the two brothers crept closer, peeking through the tiny opening. Voices, much clearer now, spilled from the room.
“We have no evidence,” a low voice said. Father, Archer thought. “Boys fight. They get angry. It happens.”
“Not Archer,” another voice said. Mother. “Not like that.” Are they still talking about that day in the training yard? Archer had thought it was ancient history now. It had been weeks ago, a lifetime for a boy his age. “Look again.”
“Annise, you’re being—”
“We need to know,” the queen said. “I’m not afraid, just realistic. If there’s any potential that he’s…like you…you can help him. Don’t you wish you’d had someone to counsel you all those years ago?”
“Of course, but—”
“No buts. Lisbeth, can you see the boys’ souls from here or do we need to visit their room?”
Archer tensed and he felt
Garon do the same. Neither of them had even been aware the mystic was in the room. Now her presence was unmistakeable as a blue eye glittered in the darkness. Archer had the urge to run, but then she said, “I can see them,” giving no indication to their mother that they were eavesdropping less than a stone’s throw away.
Through the gap in the doorway, he felt her blue eye burn into them.
In truth, he’d always believed the mystic to be a phony. Garon was half in love with her, his advances tempered only by Lisbeth Lorne’s husband, Sir Dietrich. The aging knight seemed to only get more capable with the sword as the years wore on, when it should’ve been the opposite. There were stories about him…but neither of the boys gave them much credence as northerners were prone to exaggeration.
As for Lisbeth…there’s no such thing as magic, Archer thought. He wanted to believe it despite the blue eye shining from her forehead, despite the prickling sensation he felt somewhere inside him, spreading…
And then gone.
“Well?” the queen said.
“His soul is pure,” Lisbeth said, her blue eye fading.
“No shadows?”
“None.”
“See?” Archer’s father said. “I am the only shadowed soul in the realm.”
What does he mean ‘shadowed soul’? Archer wondered.
“Fine,” his mother said. “But we shall check again in a week. Thank you, Lisbeth.”
The tall, willowy woman bowed and seemed to float more than walk toward the door. The move was so sudden that neither boy seemed capable of moving, their feet glued to the floor. She pushed the door open slightly wider and then slipped out, winking a sightless eye at them as she passed.
Archer let out a deep breath, stifling the urge to laugh else they still be discovered. It had been a close call. Maybe the mystic wasn’t so bad after all.
Garon motioned for him to follow, but Archer wanted to listen some more.
But then their father said, “Come hither,” and their mother sighed softly. Frozen hell… Archer thought, scampering away. Are five children not enough?
