by S. M. Boyce
He didn’t have any desire to yell or throw things or eat. He sat in his mother’s chair, watching the sun through the bay window as it retreated from the empty, mourning city. When the smoldering horizon ended the day, he would be expected to deliver an old adage to the kingdom:
Through the darkness of this night, there will be no master. There will be no light. All will mourn so that the morning might shine brighter for our loss.
Tomorrow, he would be their Blood. They would celebrate. He would grieve.
Gavin ran his fingers over his mother’s books, reading and rereading her half-written speeches. He even savored the lingering smell of the powdered sugar from the three lemon cookies still sitting on a plate at her desk, awaiting her return.
He glared at the flowerbed into which the sword had vanished. He now understood why she kept an open garden in her study, where she’d always stowed her Sartori. She must have summoned it somehow through the soil. Hillsidians preferred to draw their energy from the earth. It made sense. He crossed to the headless stalks of clover and knelt.
The dirt was hot and stuck to him when he dug his hands into the soil. It was soft and light. He wriggled his fingers and thought of the blade, envisioning the sword in his mind: the hilt’s emerald base and leather handle; the ivy scrollwork etched into the thick steel. He remembered its weight.
But when he pulled his hands from the flowerbed, the only thing in his palms was dirt.
He hurled the clumps of earth against the window and screamed at the top of his lungs, releasing for the first time the true depth of his hatred for the Stele and for Carden and for anything else with the black bloodline. He fell on his hands and wept into the flowerbed before he could find his voice.
“You will pay for this, Carden,” he whispered, the sound nothing but a hushed crackle. “I will kill you and your family for taking her from me.”
Someone knocked on the door. He hesitated on the flickering thought that he should open it, but the door hurled itself open in response and slammed into the wall. He couldn’t control his magic or his mind in this rage.
Richard stood at the threshold, dark purple circles under his eyes. Gavin tried to bury his own anger to respect his father’s. The retired king walked to him and knelt, wrapping him in a deep, long hug.
“The world goes on, boy, despite how desperately we may want it to stop for just a moment so that we can catch our breath. Your people want you speak to them, to comfort them, and you need to uphold that tradition. Many before you have wept for the dead and still delivered a speech.”
“I can’t say anything that’s good enough to even flatter her, much less remember her. Richard, I disagreed with her often, but I’m not ready.” Gavin wiped the dirt from his face and sat on the floor.
“Ready or not, this is yours. You must take what you have been given and do with it the best you can. Whether or not you stumble, you must do your best to walk in the same wise steps she took. Our family does not sit idle, nor do we grasp for memories. We continue on, always forward, never back.” Richard’s steady eyes burned, giving Gavin the thinnest ember of renewed vigor.
Gavin nodded. Richard helped him to his feet and stepped aside to let him through the doorway. They started down the hall, Gavin bracing himself for the speech he was neither prepared for nor wanted to give.
They turned a corner and came to a balcony, its doors open and waiting, and he stepped onto a terrace that overlooked the courtyard. Hillsidians gathered on every inch of the cobblestone and pooled down along the roads, even farther than he could see in the growing dusk. All were quiet. The roads were dark.
There will be no light.
Gavin grabbed the balcony for balance and listened to the silence of the kingdom beneath him, focusing on the deep sadness before he spoke. It wasn’t necessary to tell them that which they’d memorized from birth. Why should he recite a tired adage that everyone knew? He ignored custom and instead told them the truth.
“We were unable to see just how dark this era is,” he began, thinking of Carden disappearing from the meadow. “The world is more evil than it has been in centuries. The truth is that our beloved Queen was killed by Carden, Blood of none other than the Stele. The Stelians, isolated as we thought they were in their banishment, have grown strong and want to rip apart the world which we hold precious. I will not let them succeed.”
A thought struck him: the Grimoire.
He paused as he looked out over the crowd. There was hope yet. He made a fleeting decision without knowing where it would take him. Never once in the years to come would he pause again to question his choice.
“Alone, we aren’t strong enough to win a war against the Stele,” he continued. “Not even with all of our villages pooled together. That is why, for the first time in a thousand years, I will try to bridge the gaps of mistrust and disloyalty that divide us from our cousins in Kirelm and Losse. I know that our good friend Aislynn will join us, too, and bring her warriors and seers from Ayavel.
“This, my people, will be a time of war greater than we have ever known. This will change the tide of the yakona race. We will fight for peace by uniting against Carden this once, destroying the bloodline that has always caused unrest, and laying down our weapons and prejudices forever.”
His people applauded. There was no light, but there was an uproar as the first hint of excitement and renewed life brewed in the crowd below. Gavin turned without another word and retreated to his room.
A waning moon began to rise in the sky and peeked through the partially-drawn shades of Gavin’s bedroom window, bleaching the darkness with its pale blue light. Shelves stacked with books covered much of the walls, and some trinkets lined the mantle above the hearth: a medal, a few daggers, framed portraits of his mother and Richard. The dead, black embers of last winter’s fires sat idle in the dark fireplace. A dragon sculpture sat curled around itself on one of the shelves, its eyelids barely containing their red glow. Thin smoke drifted from its nose and mouth with each tiny breath.
A hidden door grated and slid open in the wall farthest from him to reveal a thin body that stepped out from a secret passage. Soft footsteps tiptoed into the room, but Gavin did not acknowledge them.
His bed was next to a wall of windows. He sat on the edge of his mattress, the blanket curled in his lap as he stared out into the night. His eyes were hollow as he gazed into the sky, reaching out to the stars for the answers he needed even though he knew they would never come. Still, he glowered as if doing so long enough would achieve something.
The footsteps stopped beside him.
Evelyn of Ayavel stood by his bed, her sleek silver skin glistening in his peripheral vision. She bit her lip and watched him for a moment before the air around her shimmered, and she shifted into her Hillsidian form. Her long hair darkened to an ashen blond color, and her skin faded until it was pale and freckled.
She wrapped her robe tighter about her and nestled beside him without a word, placing her head on his shoulder and wrapping her arm around his waist. He could feel the soft silk of her clothes slide against his arm, but for a while he couldn’t move or speak.
Finally, he raised his hand and rubbed her neck without looking away from his window. She pulled him tighter. Amidst all the chaos, he was glad to have his Evie, even if no one else could know of it.
“Over time, the pain of losing her will fade,” she said. Her voice was as angelic as her face and lined with an old sadness. He couldn’t help but turn and watch her large brown eyes as they looked up at him. Her sweet gaze made him smile, and he brushed some loose hairs out of her face.
“I think I’ll go to the study.”
“Stay with me a while first,” she pleaded, hugging him tighter.
She inhaled and held the breath on her tongue as if to speak again, but she hesitated. He knew better than to ask what she was thinking. If she was holding back, it was her choice. He had learned that lesson from the many flaring fights that arise when two hot-tempered minds
are somehow drawn together. He lay down on the comforter and pulled her with him, curling his arm around her shoulders.
“I think Hillside has a traitor, Evie.”
Her doe eyes widened as she looked up at him. “Who?”
“I don’t know. But someone told Carden where Mother would be and when she would be there. This was a trap set by someone in my own kingdom.”
“Oh, Gavin, you need sleep. If you think of it endlessly, you will act rashly. Sleep.”
She slid her cool fingers over his cheek, and he closed his eyes at her touch. He lay still, letting her massage his temples.
“What does it feel like, to be Blood?” she suddenly asked, breathless. He flicked his eyes open. The curiosity ate away at her expression. However much she might have wanted to mask it, she couldn’t contain her lust for the knowledge of what was to someday be hers as well.
“It’s heavy,” he admitted. “I feel old. Every inch of me burned when it happened. It was the worst pain that I’ve ever felt in my life. I even somehow felt Mother’s agony when Carden stabbed her, and that paled in comparison. There are still flares here and there, but I’m getting used to the ache.”
He looked away without trying to gauge her reaction. He’d told her the truth. If she still wanted the Ayavelian bloodline after learning how painful it would be, that was her choice. Leaving him for the duty her aunt pushed upon her would be her choice.
Neither spoke. He watched the smoke rising from his dragon figurine and lost himself to fitful thoughts of guilt and traitors and treason before he felt her cold finger run along his chest. She spoke in a soft hush.
“I’ve heard rumors of this new Vagabond. What do you think of her?”
He laughed. “You have nothing to worry about. She is a human and a weapon, nothing more.”
Evie smiled, and he kissed her forehead. Her eyes fluttered closed. He waited to leave until she was fast asleep, but as he stood, there was a knock at the door.
Richard waited in the hallway with a cushion in his hands. An ornate and familiar crown rested on the cushion’s plush silk, and a knot caught in Gavin’s throat. It was midnight, then. The door clicked shut as he closed it behind him to hide Evie, but Richard didn’t notice and instead held out the crown.
“This was your grandfather’s, once, and it was mine while I sat beside your mother. The reins have fallen to you now, my son, and this is yours alone to wear.”
Gavin lifted the crown with both hands, examining the rosy gold and elaborate emeralds. His throat tightened as he dusted one stone with his thumb, watching it glisten in the moonlight which peered through the windows on either end of the hall.
“My boy,” Richard said, clutching Gavin’s shoulder. “Be merciful and kind. Your mother always had compassion for those who deserved it. Rule as she did and you will be a strong king.”
Gavin nodded, but in his heart, he knew that he would give Carden neither mercy nor kindness. He would punish every living thing in the Stelian bloodline. That, he knew, was justice.
Aftermath
Braeden led Rowthe through the dark forests that shrouded Hillside from the rest of Ourea. A thick fog curled through the fields and underbrush. The muses had called the flaer for them so that they could return faster, but Braeden’s stomach churned more fervently the closer they came to the city. He didn’t want to go back.
Kara sat behind him, her hands around his waist as they trotted through the woods, and he tried to ignore the way his heart skipped beats when she shifted her weight or wound her hands tighter around him.
His wrist still stung, but the pain had mostly subsided. There was no scar, no blood: only the lingering throb of a cut that wouldn’t heal. He had sparse clues as to what had happened, but the strongest was the wave of Carden’s hatred which had throttled him in the clearing. It had washed over him with a single thought: Lorraine.
They continued through the quiet forest without speaking as he reasoned with himself. The only way for him to have felt a phantom pain like that from so far away was if Carden had been stabbed by something truly powerful—like the Hillsidian Sartori. Braeden’s sweating palms stuck to the hair on Rowthe’s neck as he pieced together his theory and hoped he was wrong.
He glanced down at Kara’s hands around his stomach, and tried to keep his breathing normal. He couldn’t. Her touch made his skin smolder, even through the cotton of his shirt. There was no telling when that had started, but he both hated and loved the feeling. He patted Rowthe to distract himself from the sensation and pulled to a stop in front of a massive, gnarled oak.
“Kara,” he whispered. She lifted her head from where it lay against his back. “Do you want to see how to enter the kingdom?”
Her eyes lit up, but she pursed her lips. “Won’t you get in trouble?”
“I happen to be a dashing prince. I can get away with anything.” He chuckled and shot her a mischievous grin.
He dismounted the flaer, and she laughed at his joke, but her smile faded just as quickly as it came. She glanced around the forest, and he followed her gaze. It was too quiet. The birds and crickets were silent. The canopy was still. Nothing in the woods breathed, as if everything was waiting for an unseen hunter to kill and be gone.
His smile dissolved as a creeping chill wound up his neck. He shook off the feeling of being watched and crossed to the mangled oak. It was covered in knobs and bumps, one of which had the small black outline of a tree branded into it. He whacked the knob like it was a button, and the hollow covering popped open to reveal a small keyhole beneath it. He pulled the Hillsidian key from the long chain on his neck, set it in the lock, and turned it.
A broad ray of green light cascaded across them. Kara shivered. The edges of the forest blurred. A new, greener avenue of pine trees and a cobblestone road appeared before them where decaying trunks had been before. An intricate metal gate with no visible door towered at the end of the path, its thick golden rods carved to look like vines of ivy. The vines untangled themselves in welcome, whistling and grating as the metal plants slid over each other. They unwound to create an opening just wide enough for the small party to walk through.
Braeden remounted behind Kara, and they hurried through the gate. The gold metal rewound itself behind them as the small group trotted through Hillside’s empty streets.
The colder air of the city sent chills racing down Braeden’s back before he could quash them. The flaer stepped along the vacant cobblestone road on the balls of its feet, its footsteps light and ready to bolt.
Braeden held his breath. Every door and window was closed and dark. The lamps had been extinguished, forcing him to maneuver the streets by memory and moonlight. Even the once lively, shifting cobblestones were still.
Kara reached absently for his hand as she examined the quiet houses. He swallowed hard at her touch, his stomach jumping at the warmth in her palm, and squeezed back.
“How did you know about this, Braeden?” she whispered.
“I know who it involves.”
“Tell me.”
“I—” He paused. “I want to be wrong.”
“Please tell me.”
He sighed. “The Queen. I think she’s dead.”
Kara shifted around to look at him. Her eyes were wide and her lips parted slightly, which, for some reason, made his stomach twist even more. He swallowed and pretended to appraise the rows of silent homes and shops, hoping she hadn’t noticed the way his hand tightened around hers without his meaning it to.
“But how is that even possible?” she asked. “I thought Bloods could heal.”
“They can, but everyone has a weakness. A Blood’s greatest weakness is a Sartori,” he explained. “Every kingdom has its own blade, which is coated in a poison that was specifically designed to keep Bloods from healing. It’s the only weapon from which a Blood can almost never recover.”
“So you think someone killed her?”
“I think Carden did.”
“Why do you think it was
Carden?”
He shook his head. He couldn’t say it out loud, but only one walked away from a fight between two Bloods. No prisoners. Since he hadn’t become the Blood to the Stele, Carden was still alive.
“I’m so sorry, Braeden,” she said. “She must have been like a mother to you.”
“I think she tried in her own way, but we were never very close,” he said, hating himself for admitting it. “She was kind, and I will not deny that, but she always watched me from a distance, observing how I interacted with others, how I sparred. I’m closer to Richard, just as she was closer to Gavin, and I think that’s what she wanted.”
Kara squeezed his hand tighter in support and turned around again, letting go as she did. The skin on his knuckles grew suddenly cold, and he wished she hadn’t moved away. He said nothing.
