by S. M. Boyce
The Kirelm nodded defeat and limped out of the arena.
The audience cheered through the metals gaps in the arena walls, the general among them. Braeden tried to bow himself from the ring, but the crowd roared in protest and he was given another contestant: and another, and another, until the sun was completely gone and their only light came from lamps nearby.
“One more!” The soldiers laughed after Braeden shrugged to them, asking for his freedom with a sheepish grin. He ran his hand through his hair and nodded.
“One more!” he agreed.
The gate opened and General Gurien walked into the arena. The Kirelm spread his broad white wings, which glowed just as brightly in the lamplight as they had in the sun. Braeden’s smile faded as the crowd applauded the new contestant, but he recovered after a second and bowed in welcome.
He adjusted the loose folds of his pant fabric and began to circle. The general, instead of matching his pace, walked to the center of the ring and slowly rotated, studying Braeden’s movement. Braeden jabbed the seasoned warrior’s side, which was open, but the general didn’t react except to take a step out of the way.
Their dance continued like this for too long. Braeden experimented with the general’s weaknesses while the soldier only moved to avoid contact, which apparently frustrated the prince to no end. He swayed and jabbed at anything that became open until finally, when he couldn’t take any more, he launched into a wild, unfocused barrage of fists, wings, and black fire.
The general dodged the attack with a few light steps, wrapping his arm around Braeden’s bicep. He lodged his foot at just the right angle and used the prince’s momentum to take him to the ground. In another split-second movement, Gurien summoned two massive swords of ice and held one in each hand. He pointed them to Braeden’s throat.
Kara grabbed the windowsill, but the crowd laughed and applauded as the blades of ice shattered, fractured shards landing in Braeden’s hair as the swords broke apart.
The general bent and offered a hand to help Braeden to his feet, slapping the undercover prince’s back as he laughed and mumbled something Kara couldn’t make out. Braeden nodded, bowed, and walked as fast as he could out of the arena. He paused, turned to her window, and bowed once more before continuing off and disappearing from sight.
She laughed. Show off.
Gurien, having won the last match, waved to the crowds for another opponent. Kara grumbled and closed the window before jumping onto the bed. She had no interest in watching him.
She nibbled the meat, which had a peppery hint to it, and picked at the fruit. Her wine was long gone, and she wished she had another glass. This place gave her a headache. It would probably be simple to get another serving, but she decided against it. Dealing with the dive-bombing moth-woman would just make her headache worse.
The satchel rested on the floor by the window, so she pulled it onto the bed and poured its contents onto the comforter. The half and quarter map pieces slid out onto the linens, closely followed by the rolling tumble of the little blue and orange egg. Kara grabbed the orb and rubbed it with a finger, grateful that it had survived the trek, before she set it on her pillow.
She pushed the new map piece against the half-finished slab, experimenting with how they fit together. A silver flash of light illuminated the room when she found it, but she was ready this time and shut her eyes in time to block out the glare. When she opened them again, just a few black and white spots blurred her vision.
The map was almost finished, now, with only a single corner missing. Still, the only design on the map besides the intricate ivy frame was the partially-completed oval, which was really nothing more than an indent that took up most of the lapis. Its center was smooth, without any traces of landscape or anything else that would exist on a real map. She bit her lip and frowned.
Why would the Vagabond send her on an errand around Ourea for a map that couldn’t take her anywhere?
She ran her fingers along the cold blue stone and tensed her jaw. He wouldn’t do that. There was a rhyme and a reason to it—she just hadn’t figured it out yet. Wherever the village was, it wouldn’t be easy to get to. That was kind of the point, after all, and she wasn’t sure she should go alone. Braeden would be an incredible ally on the trip. But anxiety twisted again in the pit of her stomach, as it had every time she thought of telling him.
He’d already proven that he would protect her, but what she couldn’t figure out was why he cared in the first place. After all, he had nothing to gain from it, not really. Yet, he’d lied to his own brother—well, adoptive brother—about where he was in order to make sure she was safe on this journey. He was risking being exposed as the Heir to the Stele by shifting form and following her on an expedition where she would have otherwise been completely alone. He hadn’t even pressed her for a chance to talk to the Grimoire. He hadn’t taken advantage of her in any way.
Guilt churned in her stomach. Those weren’t reasons to distrust him.
Whatever the ramifications, she would tell him about the village the next chance she had. Her gut panged at the decision, but she ignored it and threw the map in her bag. She grabbed her egg, massaged it until it was warm, and slipped it in her satchel as well. She stretched out on the mattress and stared at the ceiling.
The edges of her vision darkened, and she lost track of the time she spent watching the spackled roof above her. There was a conscious thought that she was falling asleep, but that couldn’t really be happening. Usually, realizing she was about to fall asleep shook her awake. But here, now, the darkness grew until it consumed all the light in the room.
The temperature plummeted. Goosebumps chased across her arms. She couldn’t see, even though her eyes were open, and the hair on her neck and arms stood on end. Shivers ricocheted along her body as she tried to keep warm, but aside from those unnatural movements, she couldn’t even turn her head. She was frozen in place.
Move! She tried to twitch her knees, her toes, her hands: nothing obeyed. Move! She meant to scream it, to yell, but her voice was locked away in her throat.
Move!
Mobility returned to her with a sudden jolt that made her snap upright and rub her shoulders. The rest of the room had dissolved into unending blackness, leaving only her bed—which was nothing but muted shades of gray—floating in the darkness. There was no sense of up or down or distance. There were no dimensions.
Thin white wisps sped past her and congealed a short ways off, twisting and convulsing around each other like snakes until they became a tall man wrapped in a hooded cloak. He hovered in the darkness, the corners of his robe billowing without a wind. His hood veiled his face.
“What was that, Vagabond?” she demanded. “How was that necessary?”
“I’m sorry if I frightened you. I brought you into the Grimoire as you slept. It’s the only place where we may speak freely,” he said. His voice echoed, reverberating in the vast nothing which surrounded them.
“Warn me next time.” She tried to forget the frightful paralysis that had kept her cemented to the bed, but shuddered as the memory resurfaced anyway.
“You are in Kirelm,” he said. It was not a question.
“Yeah, how did you know?” she asked, looking him over. He clenched his fists but released them just as quickly. He ignored her question.
“How have you been received, Kara?”
“No one tried to kill me, so I guess that’s a good start.”
Her chest panged with regret and her throat caught on her words, but it was too late to stop herself. She glanced back to the Vagabond. If her nightmare had really been a memory, that had been crass.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just so frustrated that I didn’t think. They don’t have much respect for women here.”
“They have every respect for women,” he corrected. “They simply don’t believe that a woman should partake in politics or war, and you are meddling in both. Few here will ever be fond of you for that reason, and such is why y
ou must act with restraint, patience, and conviction.”
“That’s complicated.”
“As is life.”
“Vagabond,” she began, her voice quiet. She wasn’t sure how to word what she wanted to say. “You said you’re a spirit, right? A real ghost? So you know how you died?”
The hood turned to the floor. She wished she could see his face.
“Why do you ask?”
“I had this nightmare on the way here. I was lying in a bed and Kirelm guards grabbed and chained me. Was that the village? Is that where I’m trying to go?”
“That was indeed a memory of mine,” he said softly. “But no, that was not the village. We were in what we thought was a safe house. It was a trap.”
She was silent.
“What else did you see of that night, Kara?”
She told him everything she could remember about the dream, and he became unnaturally still when she described the stunning woman who bled over the white marble floor. Her voice died off when she finished. Neither of them spoke for a while.
“That was Helen,” he finally said. “The love of my life.”
“I’m sorry, Vagabond.”
“Is there more to the dream?”
“No.” She thought back to the blood dripping over the woman’s fingers. “Do all vagabonds have red blood?”
“Yes. You will not stay here long, so don’t be surprised if you are quickly ushered out of the kingdom. The Kirelm were never fond of our kind.” There was no emotion in his voice.
“That memory—did you die that night?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“No it isn’t. I have a right to know what I’m up against.”
“You have already seen that. To know my past will only cast doubt on your purpose.”
That was not a real answer.
“Is that going to happen to me?” she asked. Her heart was steady and her breath calm, which surprised her. She’d just asked him if she was going to die, after all.
“No,” he answered. “At least, not today. Not tomorrow.”
“Ah. Well I feel better, then.”
“This is sarcasm, yes?”
She laughed and rubbed her eyes without answering.
“Sleep well, Kara.”
When she looked up, the room had returned. The lanterns by the arena were extinguished, so that the only light came from the brilliant moon hanging in her window. Its light cast a silver haze on her bed.
“Right,” she said to the empty room. “Like I can sleep now.”
The knock on Kara’s door in the early afternoon was timid at best. She’d managed to doze off at some point in the early morning and slept far longer than intended, so in her tired delirium, she mistook the incessant tapping on the door for rain on her window. When she did finally hear the soft rapping, she opened the door to the same woman that had ushered her out of public view the night before. The maid held a tray of fruits and a cold omelet.
“You must hurry to be ready for your meeting with Blood Ithone,” the woman said, her voice fluttering with nerves. She set the tray on the vanity and slung a long silver gown over the bed. She turned to Kara, waiting to help her dress.
Kara thought back to her conversation with Aurora. If she wore that dress, it would be all Ithone saw. He wouldn’t listen.
“No.” she finally said.
The maid froze. “I—I apologize, but what? No?”
“I would like pants, please.”
“But Mistress, we have customs. We must all dress in a similar fashion. It’s our way.”
“I respect that. I am also not going to wear that dress. Hillside gave me pants and that’s what I expect here as well.”
Admittedly, the dress was beautiful. Even Kara, who ripped her prom dress falling down the stairs in her senior year of high school, could appreciate the silk. She knew it would flatter her body, and the fabric glittered in the afternoon sunbeams as if it were made of diamonds. But it was still a dress. At this point, she had to defend the principle.
The woman blubbered again, as she had in the hallway yesterday, but Kara was ready this time. She waved her hand to cut it off.
“No.”
The woman scowled. Wrinkles twisted her brow, and her mask of timid blubbery dissolved into annoyance as she marched from the room. Kara closed the door behind her and without another word, summoned a small lavender flame to warm her omelet.
The egg was mixed with peppered tomatoes, which added a warm spice, and there was a hint of something sweet as well. She ate and bathed, wrapping herself in a towel afterward as she scrutinized her two clothing options: the dingy, tattered rags in which she’d come to Kirelm; or, the stunning dress that undermined everything she was trying to do. She grumbled, snatched the tattered rags, dressed, and opened her door to General Gurien, who was poised to knock.
He gaped and examined the mud-stained rips and splotches of blood left on her traveling outfit.
“My lady,” he said when he found his voice. “You would certainly not wear that to speak to Blood Ithone?”
“Unless you have a set of pants I can wear,” she said, with a warm, fake smile.
He scoffed, and she brushed past him without a clue of where she was going. The rush of the waterfall grew louder in the few steps she was allowed to take before the general stopped her.
A sheet of ice crackled across the wall. It raced past and licked the floor in front of her, creating dark, frozen pools that stopped her in her tracks. The frost bent and split, growing to cover the entire hallway like a thin, frozen wall. Icicles dangled over the railing, frozen daggers that reminded her of Christmas and home and everything she was giving up for the yakona who made her life in Ourea so difficult. She glanced over her shoulder and cocked an eyebrow.
The trail of ice stemmed from where Gurien rested his outstretched hand against the wall. He frowned and sighed, but it came out as more of a growl.
“I have a compromise, Vagabond, if you will just listen.”
Fifteen minutes later, she was wearing a child’s small gray traveling suit—the only outfit Gurien could find that fit her. Its simple bodice had only minute décor along the sleeves, and the suit was rimmed with a knee-length, blue satin skirt. However, and much to her liking, black pants were involved beneath it all. She glanced herself over in a mirror and grinned.
“I misjudged you, General.”
“At least you’re in a woman’s clothes,” he said, apparently still not entirely happy with the arrangement. She glared at him over her shoulder, but he didn’t apologize.
“Your people are different.” He shrugged. “I understand. But you aren’t with them. You are in a nation of a different sort. You must learn to respect the customs where you go or you will offend those you try to help.”
“We should get going,” she grumbled.
“You can’t expect us to conform to you. That’s not tolerance. It’s ego.”
“It goes both ways, General.”
He sighed. “Be careful what you say to Blood Ithone. He isn’t compromising.”
The hallway in this section of the palace had no waterfall or courtyard, but was instead wide and empty and open. Gray paneled walls lined with black wooden trim continued down the corridor and twisted out of view around a corner. Gurien, however, turned to the right and began down a set of silver stairs lined with blue carpet. Rows of feet appeared one after the other as she followed him, until a massive throne room came into view.
The room was filled with Kirelms, most of whom kept to the walls. Soldiers stood in a line at the foot of the stairwell, clearing a path for her that led to a set of three thrones at the far end of the room. A tall Kirelm wearing a thick silver crown sat in the center seat; Kara could only assume he was Blood Ithone. Aurora sat to his right, and an older woman, likely Kirelm’s Queen, sat to his left.
Disdain wrinkled Blood Ithone’s face. He looked her over and grimaced as she walked closer, unannounced. Kara examined the tile and windows
as she walked, trying to decide if this was the room from her nightmare. It wasn’t.
Ithone rested his chin in his hand and watched her, waiting to speak until she stopped at the foot of his throne.
“Were better clothes not provided? I was not aware that you were a twelve-year-old about to take her first flight beyond the walls,” he said, looking her over while his audience laughed at his joke.
“A dress was provided, if that’s what you mean,” she said with a wry smile, catching his eye.
He smirked. “I will not lie to you, young lady. I am highly disappointed.”
